


The Head and The Heart

by twistedthicket1



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Steven Universe (Cartoon)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Gem!Sherlock, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Romance, Steven Universe AU, Violence, gemlock, half Gem!John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2016-07-11
Packaged: 2018-04-18 01:02:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4686350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twistedthicket1/pseuds/twistedthicket1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson entered the Gem War not expecting to return home. When he's critically injured and saved by all things by one of his enemies, he must learn that sometimes, sides are not nearly so black and white. Sherlock Holmes is a full Gem, living as a detective in London. He's both in many ways what John (and his newfound powers) need, and yet quite possibly everything they should avoid. A Gem and a half-Gem, living together... They might just possibly be the answer when the uneasy peace is threatened between Gems and Humans by a madman who merely wants to watch everything burn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Gem Birth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Devisama](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Devisama/gifts).



> So I began this project after a sleepless night with too much caffeine and far too many episodes of Steven Universe. I gift it to Devi, as she encouraged it to continue XP 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy, and I hope that this little AU becomes something you fall in love with just as much as I have. This chapter has been edited by a good friend of mine but of course, constructive criticism is always welcome :)

 

 

_I never asked to be made. **~ Steven Universe (Amethyst)**_

 

 

Aliens used to be in many ways the stuff of fairy tales. If John thought really hard on it, a fuzzy childhood image came to mind of sitting around a campfire, his sister by his side. They would tell tales, ghost stories and alien abductions being painted in lurid detail over the sugar-sweet melting of marshmallows and chocolate. The stories were often fueled by the darkness of night, and John by the end of the night would feel warmed by the cheery flames crackling away and the scratchy texture of his mother’s pyjama leg, his cheek leaning against it. He used to fall asleep during the summer to the whisper of U.F.O’s and of far-off galaxies, and they spotted his dreams and made him wonder what it’d be like to travel to a new star, a new place. He grew up thinking that meeting an Alien would be like meeting an imaginary friend- something wondrous and strange.

 

Aliens became all too real December 5th, 1984. John could remember the day it happened, crystal clear. He had been sitting in the kitchen, pouring milk into his cereal. A radio barked out news, his father listening intently even while reading the paper. The newscaster’s voice was crisp, but with it there was an underlying note of fascination, of fear. Little John, so young but very much focused on the sound of the woman’s voice, stopped his consumption of Cheerios to listen.

_An unidentified aircraft recently landed in the states today in the Delmarva East Coast. Witnesses report having seen large explosions in the sky, flashing lights, followed shortly by a smoking wreckage falling from the sky. Authorities as of yet have closed the area it landed off to residents, claiming that there could be harmful radiation surrounding the object. As of yet, there is no explanation as to what the craft was doing in the East Coast area, nor if it is affiliated with the military in any way._

That had been it, really. John had gone to school, taken his lessons. He had a snack when he got home, went to bed and closed his eyes. He had forgotten all about the radio report by the time he began to dream, nestled into the warmth and safety of his covers. He kissed his mum goodnight and he didn’t think much of it all, only a distant and hazy thought towards stars and rocketships. He went to sleep oblivious, peaceful in the knowledge that his mum and da were nearby, and that Harry was sound asleep across from him in her own bed.

 

He’d never wake that complacent ever again.

 

****

War was violent- so many knew that and yet they signed up for it and found themselves unprepared for the shock. It wasn’t just the fighting- it was the new clothes, a uniform that never felt like home. It was the food, plentiful but tasteless and used more as fuel than eaten for pleasure. It was the endless nights in a place made unrecognisable by spilt blood and endless nightmares.

It was the Gems- the monsters in the night that invaded Afghanistan and Iraq and fought with powers no human being could ever hope to sanely fight against.

 

John went to war expecting not to make it back home- and in some ways thought he was better for it after years of watching his mother and sister drink themselves into an early grave, his father an early death that loomed over the household like the pain of a phantom limb. He thought he could escape those memories if he sanded them away with battle, training drills and pushups in replacement of the quiet nights filled with too many unspoken words.

 

Yet the first time he actually saw what the enemy could do, what they were capable of- he nearly pissed himself where he stood. He was not ashamed to admit it. It haunted his dreams still, even after months and years passed by. The first Gem he ever faced was an elemental type- a creature able to manipulate heat and temperature. That morning his squad had joked about being burned to death, unaware of what awaited them. They had laughed like boys, only to scream like men later as the witnessed the violent tempest that was raw power later that evening. John watched as his first Captain- a man with a booming laugh and an unbreakable will- was thrown like a ragdoll, his spine severed instantly on impact with the ground. That night he had vomited twice onto the sand, remembering the unnatural angle in which Benson’s neck had been twisted. The jokes stopped after that night, with the ones that made it back home. No one laughed or smiled at Benson’s funeral, and everyone felt a coldness settle in their stomach that was as heavy as lead.

Three months later, John had watched a new lieutenant destroy the Gem that had killed Benson as revenge, only to be speared from behind by another waiting in the shadows.

 

John went to war and only found a losing battle, and as the years passed he became a captain himself, and grew to hate the sound of fusion, a ringing song in the distance that was a harbinger of war.

He grew to _loathe_ the sound of men screaming.

He grew to _hate_ anything to do with Gems, with their powers. John grew to hate with a loathing that was black and unfathomable and bottomless as the sea.

He hated even as the years went on and the war started to turn- the Gems beginning to suffer under constant fire from humanity, beginning to grudgingly give ground.

His hatred turned into a hating of everyone as he watched fellow soldiers torture a Gem with a form that was childlike and small, killing them over and over only to wait until they revive to torture them again.

John learned to hate _war itself_ , and in the process lost his hatred for individuals, Gem or Human. He learned hatred for death, and that was what caused him on his third year in tour to try in vain to heal a civilian Gem that he had seen living in one of the many villages by the compound.

It lay cracked and broken in the sand, caught in the crossfire between their kind and his own. He held the golden pieces in his hands, pressing them together as they glittered under the sun. He tried even as under gunfire he could hear his troop retreating, calling him mad for caring about a broken rock.

 

John tried to fix the shattered pieces of stone even as the whistling sound of a bomb shrieked in the distance, even as he heard his friend Murray’s voice screech his name. Even as he felt a bullet knock into him, steal his breath. John lay in the sand bleeding, face only lifting once with wide eyes as he saw the Gem-based weapon land almost fifty feet beside him, and explode. He was thrown back into the dirt, a ringing filling his ears as dust blinded him. Everything dimmed to grey, even as a moment passed before John was overwhelmed with pain that made his lips part and his scream endless and loud. He could feel it tearing apart his throat, clawing its way through him just like the shrapnel lodged in his shoulder. John screamed and screamed, bleeding out onto the sand, white-hot pain garbling his words and his thoughts so that _Please, God, let me live_ turned into a wordless wheeze for air.

 

It wasn’t God that answered John’s call. Instead it was something else, a piece of something that had wound up in his shoulder. The soldier could remember the warm glow of it sometimes, imprinted on the back of his eyelids. It whispered to him a name, even as the world crumbled away and left John bereft in a sea of darkness, alone and afraid.

****

**_Citrine._ **

 

****

 

The War ended while John was lost in the throes of fever. Nearly a month and a half he was out of commission, and in that time the Gem homeworld decided to sign a contract of peace with the Earth. It was a truce on both sides, alien and Human both recognising the extent of the damage caused and the sacrifices that had been made. It was signed by the council of Diamonds themselves- a particular voice for humanity speaking out in the form of an Alien with pink and curling hair.

John heard all of this of course not until weeks after it had happened, his medically-induced coma carrying him through surgery, fever and sickness so that he would not be in unspeakable pain. He woke to a new age of sorts, and the soldier didn’t admit even to his therapist that to him it felt like a piece of him was left behind in the battle. He was an outlier, not just mentally he would find out, but physically.

 

He had a limp, and a tremor that would not go away no matter how many times he clenched his hands, and a nasty scar that held in it a new shiny chip that when he looked at it directly, made him feel ill. The Doctor’s called it “Blood Fusion”, and it was a trait they had only seen once or twice since the war’s beginning. John listened to the medical jargon with a dazed kind of attention, hardly believing the words coming out of the nurse’s mouth as she explained to him, reading from her clipboard.

_“It happens when a Gem undergoes severe damage sometimes- pieces of them can be lodged into other Gems or even human flesh and take hold. It’s a remnant of the Gem’s final willpower, their nature is host-like to begin with as their life-force is centred about a stone most of the time. In this case, the last of the Gem’s will has attached itself to your physical form, we wouldn’t have been able to remove it in surgery.”_

John had swallowed in response to the news, his hands clenching in his bedsheets. His voice was hoarse.

_“What does it mean, then? For me?”_

_“Depends. The Gem could be benign, essentially dead. If that’s the case, your life will essentially go back to normal.”_

_“... And if it isn’t?”_

_“... Mr. Watson, I’m going to be honest with you. The chances of the Gem being active are slim at best. But if it is… your personality will radically change. You’ll experience physical changes, abnormalities in the human genome will occur. Your sense of sight, hearing and smell will even change. You’ll be an entirely different person.”_

 

John hadn’t asked any more questions after that, his jaw tight and his gaze turned towards the window and the uncertainty of evening. The nurse had tentatively asked if he had made arrangements with a relative or friend, but his silence was perhaps telling enough. After a while, sensing his need for solitude,  the nurse had gathered herself and left.

 

****

John’s first dream in his beige little bedsit didn’t actually start as a nightmare. Those came later, once despair had time to well and truly sit in. Instead, his imagination painted for him a darkness that was profound and deep, his form swimming in it from the waist-up. He was dressed in military fatigues, and his dog tags glinted like twin points of light. He looked down, realising that it was water, salty and restless that he stood in. It was cold like ice, the floor of it slippery, and John kicked out in panic as he found it rising to his middle, then his chest. His toes came off the ground quickly, boots turning waterlogged and heavy. The more he lashed out, the deeper it seemed to get, and coldness made his limbs feel heavy and his blood turn to sludge. His uniform was like a lead weight, pulling him under, drowning him.

He groped out blindly, mouth opening in a wordless cry for help. Yet his voice was not his own, a wordless wheeze of terror, and John felt panic set in true and well as he realised that there was no one about. The loneliness of it for some reason scared John more than the actual sensation of oxygen leaving his lungs. The water reached his mouth, filling his chest and blacker than ink. He began to sink.

 

It was the hand that reached out and gripped his, that cut through that fear. John’s head was underwater, but through the blurring image the water gave his stinging eyes, he saw the fingers embracing his own were glowing, a pulsing and steady gold. It was warm, a point of light that broke through blackness. Inhuman strength pulled him upwards, freeing him from the water’s prison. John gasped in lungfuls of air as his head broke above the waterline, eyes watering as he looked up at the tall, feminine figure that still gripped his arm. The Gem he had been trying to piece back together so it could regenerate. He vaguely recognised her, even as he coughed out lungfuls of water.

 

Yet… she was different (at least, John often assumed the Gems were female, culturally they preferred more feminine appearances and figures). She seemed broken, somehow. Her golden form was bare, shining outwards with light that was more dazzling than any sun John had seen. Yet fissures of white light marred the soft gold hues, as if she was a broken china doll held together by string and glue. Her stance was unnatural, pained. It was not the graceful lilt of something living, not wholly. Her eyes were pupiless, white as they stared at John. Her long, flowing gold hair tumbled down her shoulders in waves. She towered over John, both beautiful and terrifying. Yet her expression was kind. Her voice was soft, gentle as she lifted him into the air as if he were weightless, as if he was nothing more than a sack of flour.

_“For trying to save me, I shall live on. For trying to save me, I shall live within you.”_

 

John didn’t have much time to respond, because before his eyes the Gem was falling apart, crumbling into pieces. he didn’t have time to tell her his actions were instinctive- not worth her praise. He did not have time to tell her that did not want her gift, did not want this changing body. He did not really have much time to say anything at all truly, for the woman clutched at her chest -where her Gem lay- and broke it apart from her body. Lifting John in the air with one hand by his shoulder, she thrusted the vital piece of her form forward, ignoring John’s scream of pain as it connected with his skin.

 

The soldier woke crying wordlessly out into the dark of his bedsit, jackknifing into sitting, clutching at his shoulder and clawing at the heat that burned him. It pulsed, alive and angry. John had barely enough time to realise that he was in a cold sweat before nausea washed over him and left his body trembling, and he lurched to his feet. He barely made it to the toilet before bile rose up in the back of his throat, and he found the sink in the end to spit into. It was heaving, gripping the sink white-knuckled, that John opened his eyes and saw his hands, his skin. He jerked backwards, staring in the mirror, letting out a shout before his hand came to clap over his mouth, stopping the instinctive shriek.

 

Gold. He was… his _skin_ was gold. His body… everything was different and John’s wide eyes struggled to take it in, unable to accept the disorientation that swept over him and forced him to see what was before him as fact. He was glowing, a soft light from his skin that tinted everything into brilliant hues of amber and sunlight, illuminating the tiny loo like he was a firefly. Yet that was not all. His pyjamas were gone for a form and a costume that was unrecognisable and yet essentially John Watson, of a sort. In a way. _Maybe._

 

For one- he looked distinctly more feminine, his figure shaped into that of a woman’s, chest hidden by bandages that also crawled up along his arms and legs- protecting his knuckles as if he were preparing for a fight. The rest of his torso and stomach was bare, but military bottoms hugged his hips, sandy and yellow in patterned shades. His boots were also sand-coloured, fitting his feet and unrecognisable to John. He had never bought them. Never.

He saw a face that was at once his and not, short hair yet feminine eyes, all aglow with an inner light.

Yet the thing that caught John’s eye the most- the inescapable proof of his transformation, was the unbalanced Gem resting in place of his scar on his shoulder. Bright gold, it blazed like a medal of valour, fused into his very skin and fully formed.

 

The last thought John had before dizziness swept over him and he felt his knees buckle, was that it was going to be difficult to hide that underneath even the bulkiest of jumpers.

 

****

 _True Form._ John learned in time that what happened during that night in the bedsit was a full manifestation of his Gem side, brought on presumably by the shard in his shoulder regenerating and fusing into his skin. He also learned that it was not a permanent thing, and that if he concentrated, he could make himself appear as he did most of the time. For the first few weeks, he struggled to get the ability under control. He earned many stares as he limped by, a Gem yet not in his appearance, glowing like a fucking Christmas tree through London on his trips to his therapist. Ella, though relatively useless for his emotional health, did admittedly help him in those first uncertain weeks, aiding John by giving him tips and tricks to get himself focused enough to change back to his Human form. She patiently sat with him through panic attacks, and did her best not to stare when John couldn’t manage and showed up to her office golden and glowing and cross.

 

It was a lot like learning to drive, an ability only cultivated through practice, and John forced himself back and forth between his Human and Gem form constantly in those weeks, perfecting it with bullheaded determination.

John didn’t care much if he was seen as a _woman_ , that wasn’t the issue. But like _hell_ was he going to be seen as a bloody _Gem_ , not in the UK where Alien Immigrants were still looked on as the equivalent of parasites leeching resources from the world. The fact was, Gems were looked down on- judged and more often than not feared. The army doctor wanted to fade into the background, and that was difficult enough as it was with his cane, let alone with a completely new form and a tendency to light up like a glowstick.

 

****

He ran into Mike Stamford nearly three months into his return. Too many days for John at the time were spent aimlessly wandering parks, drinking cold cups of coffee and dreading the fact that he could barely afford said meagre lifestyle. Army pension his arse, it did little to help the fact that he had lost both sleep, weight and purpose, his life marked in the number of times he sat in front of his therapy-mandated blog, staring into space.

Mike waved him down with single-minded friendliness however, ignoring John’s prickly greeting and smiling at him even while reminiscing briefly over their war days together. The army doctor admitted privately to himself that he did like Mike, and the extra offer to buy coffee soothed wounds left open by thoughtless comments about how “Last he heard, he was getting shot at”. Sitting side by side on cold benches, John cupped his coffee and drank it slowly, letting Mike’s company warm him as much as the drink.

The man’s newly acquired softness hadn’t rounded away his quick sense of humour, and soon John found himself smiling, the first true smile in a long time that hadn’t felt forced and false. Feeling unusually social, John admitted quietly the reason for his worries, the barest sketch of his army pension problems and his isolation. He tapped his cane as he spoke absently, silently resenting the thing and his damn bum leg.

 

“C’mon. Who would want me for a flatmate?”

Mike’s blue eyes regarded him kindly, a small smile on his face that wasn’t pitious but concerned. He hummed to himself, turning the coffee cup in his hand as if deciding whether or not to divulge information. His voice was ponderous.

“Funny, you’re the second person to ask me that today.”

John found himself frowning in curiosity, eyebrows lowering in confusion. Interest piqued him despite himself, and it was without thinking he found himself asking “Who was the first?”

 

****

Gems gravitate towards other Gems. This was an unfortunately true stereotype, given the judgemental quality of society and the genetic predisposition Gems had to seek out a “hive” of sorts to operate with. In his war years, John witnessed what “packs” of Gems could do- untold destruction meted out in desert lands that left the entire area a smoking crater.

John wondered if Mike knew more about his condition than he let on even as he walked him to St. Bart’s hospital, because the instant the ex-army doctor stepped into the lab his blood thrummed with recognition of another.

John’s head jerked upwards, seeing the figure before him and feeling a dryness in his throat as he came to realise that he was standing before another Gem. Tall like most of their kind, the person was bent over unidentifiable samples, a figure made of angles and bones. Yet leaning over could not hide the gem that gleamed a shifting, changing blue just at the part in their raven curls.

 

Sherlock Holmes was in a Humanoid form, skin no unnatural colours or shades, yet one glance of those pale eyes and a look at those unnaturally high cheekbones and John thought to himself that he had never met someone so alien in his life. The fact that he was in a more “normal” form was not exactly a surprise in itself- most Gems assimilated in some way to fit in better, to hide. Even the fact that he presented as male in Humanoid form was not really abnormal. Yet what was abnormal was the way he moved, sinuous and far too graceful for a Human being. Like he was floating on air, Sherlock straightened and took John’s offered phone from him like he was barely in contact with the ground, flipping through it with a kind of careless grace in his expensive suit that made John feel at once horribly underdressed and scruffy-looking.

When he spoke, his voice was low and sonorous, and his eyes seemed to change colour like his Gem as he looked up, peering at John for a long moment, seeming to see past him and into his mind itself.

 

John’s shoulder itched, he repressed the urge to scratch at it under the stranger’s gaze.

“Afghanistan, or Iraq?” That deep voice asked, and just like that, John found that there was a purpose in his life, a nameless rhythm. Like a soldier’s march, he found himself unable to do anything but follow, even as he heard a whisper of a female voice in his mind, cautioning him with cryptic words.

_  
Careful, now. With all good stories, trouble lies ahead.  _


	2. Tanzanite

 

 

_Listen, Mr. Universe. Rose may find you charming, but that's only because you're human. You're a novelty, at best. **~ Steven Universe (Pearl)**_

 

Of course, Sherlock seemed to know at a glance just what exactly John was. His story was laid out before the man, read in the lines on his face and the texture of his skin. It was woven into John’s very jumper, and Sherlock read all of it and still invited him to stay at 221 B. Like a moth, the ex-army doctor followed, strange dreams urging him forward as much as his own fascination. He was helpless to the call, a siren’s drone suited just for his ears, and his alone.

 

Sherlock did more than just invite John to become flatmates with him. He seemed truly interested in him as a person. Lately, this had been a rare occurrence for John, who had become used to and irritated by people gawking at him in the streets because of his cane, his gem and his existence. It was refreshing to have a pair of eyes follow him that didn’t want to merely keep him like an animal in a cage at the zoo, and it was a surprise just how quickly John felt himself settling into civilian life with Sherlock Holmes at the till of his metaphorical ship.

 

Still, the question came to mind as to what Sherlock’s motives were, living in a city as Gemphobic as London. John had been brought here due to the war- sent home so that he could take his meagre army pension and eventually live out the rest of his life in a beige bedsit. Many Gems avoided London on principle, just because of the constant protests towards immigration and the strong hatred for their kind. Yet Sherlock stood out like a peacock amongst pigeons, even in his human form. The first time John went with Sherlock to a crime scene, coat billowing out magnificently behind him, the amount of eyes on the man burned into John’s memory, a brand that followed Sherlock even in the relative shelter of police tape.

 

Certainly, Sally Donovan made her opinion on Gems clear. John had learned enough that at a glance, he could appear relatively human. Clearly, the sergeant had thought so as she’d pulled him to the side, hissing at him that the likes of Sherlock Holmes were _“Freaks”_ of nature. John might have laughed at the irony of it all, his own genetic code now far more “freakish” than even Sherlock’s. He settled instead for defending the detective, even if the man was currently elbows-deep in human remains, yelling at Lestrade testily.

 

That was the thing with the Gem, he didn’t seem particularly worried one way or the other if people liked him. He was a pariah, even amongst Gems, John suspected. Why else would he present masculinely, reject everything about Gem culture John knew, play at being human when he could so easily go to a city in which Gems were respected, even _exalted_ as the superior race?

 

It was a conundrum, one that John found only deepened on the rare times that Sherlock shed his outer façade, revealing the alien beneath. The first time John saw Sherlock’s true form, the detective had revealed it in the safety of their own flat. John had come back from a shift with his new job (locum work, the only thing he was really good for any more since he was living with a madman who insisted on pulling him along on his adventures) to find the man stretched out like a spoiled cat upon the sofa. Except, Sherlock hadn’t looked particularly like Sherlock, at least not the man that the ex-army doctor was used to. The first thing to notice was the tinge of the Gem’s skin, a dark blue that caught and held the eye like mating colours on a bird. John took in the colour change, just the other side of periwinkle, and felt his mouth run dry as his eyes tracked along the line of Sherlock’s newfound curves. From the swell of her chest to the flare of her hips, Sherlock’s true form was indeed as feminine as any other Gem’s, short curls only accentuating the sudden feminine line of her jaw. Pale blue eyes pulsed with the shade of her Gem, a crest at her forehead that shimmered with power. Sherlock’s clothes were new and strange, waist-high shorts and dark leggings that made her form lithe and dancer-like. Her midriff was left exposed, crop-top covering her upper half along with the trademark scarf that John had come to know so well. It circled her neck, a point of recognition in a sea of strange.

 

John hadn’t even realised how he must have been staring until Sherlock’s voice rumbled, low and melodious and both familiar and strange, uttered from different lips.

_“Tanzanite.”_

Sherlock watched as John blinked, a slow and uncomprehending gesture. The detective sighed through their teeth as if the effort to move pained them, sitting up slowly to flick John an expression that could only be described as exasperation. The fan of their lashes fluttered in irritation.

“Tanzanite. That is my real name, John.” Those eyes, pale blue blinked, and John caught a moment of predation in which Sherlock’s pupils expanded, nearly taking away the colour of them, drowning them in black. It was what the soldier used to see the moment before a wild Gem would explode into power, attack. Before he could register it however, the detective was on their feet. Still devastatingly tall, they flounced past John towards the kitchen, hips swaying to an unnamed beat. Over their shoulder, Sherlock murmured “Your Gem is a weapon-type, that’s why your hand isn’t trembling with threat.”

 

John hadn’t even noticed his hand, rock steady at his side. He glanced at it now however, tongue swiping over teeth even as Sherlock sighed, head dipped inside the fridge, spidery hands rummaging for some unseen organ or experiment.

“You really should fire your therapist, you know. She has it more than backwards. Being haunted by the war… A human mentality, really. Gems don’t _avoid_ battle, not the kind you were infused with. They _crave_ it, it’s an adrenaline rush.”

“I’m not a Gem.” John denied, even as his heart thrummed in his chest a steady drumbeat, his shoulder twingeing in syncopated sympathy. Though he couldn’t see Sherlock, he could feel their gaze, weighing on them even through the wall. The detective’s voice was quiet, a rumble of contemplation, musing and soft.

“No, I suppose you aren’t.”

 

John didn’t understand why their tone was almost relieved with said revelation. Then again, he didn’t much understand anything his flatmate did- instead merely craving the excitement, the thrill of the unexpected and unknown. _Damn it all_ , Sherlock Holmes was _right._

He _did_ crave danger. The true question, was did Sherlock crave it as well, or was his Gem designed to desire something else? John didn’t know, and truthfully, Gem culture was a mystery to most of humanity. Certainly, Sherlock offered no information as to what his purpose would be if living on his homeworld planet. The ex-army doctor somehow sensed that even if he asked, the answer that would pass the man’s lips would be a silver lie, left to hang in the air acknowledged but not addressed.

 

****

John dreamed sometimes of gold-tinted memories, swinging like a pendulum across his mind’s eye in a slow and syrup-heavy way. The images haunted him, left him feeling bereft and alone. Battles and blood and waking up in a cold cave, left to rise from the dirt like a zombie clawing its way towards sun.

 

The dreams left him screaming sometimes, jerking awake in the dark, his covers tangled about his ankles like errants hands trying to drag him down into the depths of hell. John would find himself trembling in a cold sweat, the shard of Gem in his shoulder pulsating, and sometimes in the darkness he’d hear a sinuous voice whispering in his mind that he couldn’t do this and that he wasn’t even himself anymore.

 

Then John would hear the violin, and his dark thoughts would somehow crumble before a soothing melody. The first time, John hadn’t even been able to keep his eyes open. His lashes fluttered- body slumping back towards the bed as an unknown peace filled him. It left his mind blissfully empty, quiet for a change instead of fractured and dangerous. Sherlock’s weapon- as it turned out, wasn’t much of a weapon at all.

At least, not the way John came to know it, the lilting and comforting tunes of Brahms lullabies melting away fear and terror for indigo comfort.

 

****

Sherlock was not a weapon. That much, John knew. It was in the way that the man relied on John for physical protection so often, and in the nature of his violin and the way in which his delicate body both seemed long and so, so fragile.

His companion harboured this personal theory for a while, only having it confirmed with an arrival of a black car- sleek and dangerous. Mycroft Holmes for John was a bit of a shock, he hadn’t expected to ever come across a Gem of the diamond league. Yet as he stepped into the parking lot (abandoned and empty save for a single, solitary figure) he could feel the energy crackling in the air. It caused his spine to stiffen with tension, and a voice at the back of his head to hiss Threat. It was loud enough to give him pause, looking at the man that stood before him and seeing several things at once that made the hair on the back of John’s neck stand on end.

 

Mycroft Holmes had pale eyes, nearly a colourless grey, and they had first looked at John flatly, twin pieces of flint mirroring all of the unimpressed disdain a government official could muster. They matched the jewel that crested the man’s forehead in an eerie similarity to Sherlock’s Gem- shining in the light and making John’s breath catch with its clarity. It was the colour of blue steel, sharp and teardrop shaped, and it was on clear display even though Mycroft chose a more humanoid form. Unlike the younger Holmes however, the man made no attempt to cover the Gem with a fringe of hair, instead choosing to keep his hair slicked back, attempting in vain to mask a receding hairline. John found himself unable to look away from the jewel, and he found his shoulder itching and the voice in his mind whispering thoughts that were not his own. Thoughts like **_kneel_ ** and **_fear this one_** and **_powerful_** made his left hand clench in tension. Finally, and answer in the back of his head, shrieking alarm bells. _ **Blue Diamond.**_

_Sherlock is somehow related to the Diamond Order._

 

John might have laughed, because of course the bloody madman was related to the leaders of the Gem homeworld and the instigators of the bloody war of course- but that would mean giving away his knowledge, and so he kept quiet, listening to Mycroft as the man attempted to bribe him away from his younger brother’s possession.

 

It was perhaps for this reason that John was ruder than his norm. Perhaps, it was also due to the added fact that Mycroft seemed intent on treating John like he was something particularly vile that had wound up on the underside of his shoe. It made John want to stand straighter, grit his teeth and clench his jaw like a dog being put into the ring for a fight. He settled instead for smiling, but it was not a pleasant expression. Instead it was more a bearing of teeth, and his fear melted away as John’s more human side came to the forefront. Mycroft Holmes was on his playing field, so long as he appeared human. So long as he kept up the charade of playing house.

 

“I don’t want your money.”

John decided, to which Mycroft’s grey eyes had narrowed in suspicion, an equally unfriendly smile playing on his face that was made up of derision. The elder Holmes held in every inch of him disbelief as he questioned John’s sudden loyalty.

“You’re very loyal, very quickly. Uncommon, in the likes of your type.” John heard the unspoken: For a Human. He kept his gaze expressionless, instead answering with bland amusement.

“And you’re not paying me to stay away from Sherlock Holmes or provide you intel on him. End of story.”

"You're a distraction for him, you know. He doesn't feel. Sherlock Holmes... he doesn't have  _friends._ " Mycroft spat the last word derisively, and that's when John had had enough. He turned on his heel and left, hand clenching, mind repeating the words over and over. The elder Holmes had let him go, twirling his umbrella, an eyebrow arched in contemplation as John called back

"Well maybe I'm just an exception."

 

Even as John had learned later that said man was Sherlock’s brother- he hadn’t felt regret over his decision. To see how Sherlock’s face had lit up upon his realisation that John had not sold him out (even if they could have split the money) was all the reward the soldier would need. He had a purpose again, a calling. Whatever John’s new personality was, it seemed to need that to be happy. Keeping the Gem in his shoulder happy meant John could sleep at night less plagued by nightmares.

It also meant the voices in his head remained blessedly silent- and it was only to himself that John admitted privately that they existed at all- and that he was afraid of their words curling in his ear like smoke.

 

****

Gems did not have sex.

Not in the conventional way that John knew sex to be, at least. For Humans, the act of intimacy was a primal thing- physical and raw and sometimes aggressive, other times achingly slow and sweet. Before the war, John had experience enough to know what he liked, what he craved in a partner. He knew his “type”, blondes with curvy bodies and sweet smiles. Confident and sometimes just a little bit slutty. In uni he had no trouble finding them, his looks average in his mind but his personality charming. His mates had often commented on his ability to pick up girls, and when he thought about his med school days John could remember as much about biology class as he could about Heather, or Ashley, or Karen.

 

Those thoughts were safe, in the solitude of his bed in the dark. John could think of these encounters while touching himself and not feel as if he were stepping on something dangerous, something taboo. The Gem in his shoulder hadn’t really decreased his sex drive, and so he found himself often trying to recreate those drunken nights, later replacing the images of those women with images of Sarah, from work. None of this frightened John really, until the images as the weeks passed began to shift, tumbling towards faces and scenarios that were both alluring and alien. Blonde hair began to turn to raven curls, sometimes in the light of the moon the darkest shade of blue John had ever seen. Daydreams of soft thighs became lanky limbs, delicate fingers and large hands. John could ignore this, guiltily encourage it even some nights- but his limit was when he came and Sherlock’s name nearly spilled from his lips, hoarse and needy in the darkness.

Along with it, a voice that was not his own whispered in his ear.

_**Fuse.** _

 

John, confused and guilty and sated, burrowed deeper into his blankets, picking at the scar along his shoulder and gritting his teeth even as he swore to himself to never think of Sherlock while getting off again. A vain oath, one that would not hope to hold as cases progressed, and John only grew to love and hate the way Sherlock’s eyes would follow him, seeing far too much and not telling nearly enough. It was only made worse by the fact that John knew his affections were in vain. Gems did not love, not the way that Humans did. Gems…

Truthfully, John had no idea what Gems did in terms of relationships. The only Gem he could hope to ask would read far too much into his question, and the ex-army doctor wasn’t yet prepared for a conversation on the Birds and the Bees with his flatmate.

He just needed to get laid. Really, John was convinced that it would fix everything. He wasn’t getting regular sex, and his brain was crossing wires, making intimacy appear where there was none. He had seen it happen loads of time, in the army. Soldiers, not in love but desperate and needy would share each other’s beds, their hands fumbling and their minds shut off so that they could merely feel instead of think. It was flame as opposed to fire.  He was merely sexually frustrated, _not_ in love with Sherlock Holmes.

 

 


	3. Kindergarten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yay new chapter~ I'm currently dying from pms right now, so if this is badly edited I do apologize. However, I think I got most things ^_^ 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

 

 

_I'm going to disappear without making a single friend. **~ Steven Universe (Connie)**_

 

If there was one word that John hated in the English dictionary, it was the utterance of _Kindergarten._ The sound of it made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, his lips pulling back subconsciously into a snarl of terror. To a civilian, the word meant nothing- a harmless naming of a child’s first years at school. To John, a soldier who had witnessed what Kindergarten meant in a warzone, it represented bloodshed, hell and the memories of his friends lying dead in a pool of their own blood.

 

It was a word that brought nothing but pain and suffering, and when Sherlock’s case was revealed to be placed in the setting of an ex-one, John had to resist the urge to flinch away from the concept like it was a hot coal. Lestrade had called in the dead of night, and the detective had wasted no time in dragging John out of the warmth of his bed and into the chill evening air without so much as a midnight snack or a glass of water. There were not many places in-city that had the mountainous regions needed for a Kindergarten, and so the cab ride was a long drive out to cornwall during which John struggled to stay awake and mentally calculated the cringe-worthy amount that Sherlock would no doubt pay the cab driver when they finally arrived. The Gem didn’t seem particularly bothered by the length of the trip, and John found himself lulled by the continuous motion of the vehicle as much as Sherlock’s particular scent of lemon, cigarettes and home. When he woke, the sun was beginning to pinken the sky, and Sherlock’s spidery hand was nudging his shoulder. The detective’s baritone rumbled with something akin to affection.

“John, we’re here.”

 

In the pink wash of twilight the rolling hills before them appeared to be grey lumps, ominous monsters hunched over the ground, selfish dragons laying claim to their land. The grass was pitted with holes and pock-marks, small tunnels that lay dead testimony to the sinister purpose the land had once had. John and Sherlock picked their way over them carefully, blue and red police sirens creating an illuminated beacon towards the scene of the crime that glowed in the distance. It was cold, and John pretended that it was why he shivered each time they passed an empty pit, staring up at them from the ground like soulless black eyes watching their progress. 

Lestrade looked just as tired as John felt, his normally cheerful expression pinched with unease. His breath made clouds in the chill air, and upon seeing Sherlock and John’s approach he came towards him, holding up his hands to halt their steps. His voice was strained with exhaustion, and the police lights reflected in his dark eyes, ghostly orbs of blue and red that only highlighted the desperation in his expression.

However, he wasn’t alone. Before Lestrade came to greet them fully, Sally was already pushing her way through the crowd. On her face was a tight scowl, bitterness in the line of her shoulders as she called to Greg as if he were half-mad.

 

“Why did you bring the _freak?_ Chances are he knows the murderer himself-”

 _“Sally.”_ The man all but hissed through his teeth, scrubbing a hand over his face before glancing nervously in Sherlock’s direction. The detective merely arched his brow derisively at the D.I’s mildly apologetic look, voice rumbling with cutting irritation.

“I take it then that a Gem is suspected for the crime?”

“Given the fact that the victim was killed by what looks like an electrocuted knife?” Sally spat, arms crossed in front of her chest defensively. John felt something cold run in his blood at the words, shifting uneasily to glance at Sherlock. The detective didn’t seem overly impressed with the sergeant’s outburst. “I’m just saying that a Gem shouldn’t be involved in a Gem-based crime. There’s too much of a chance of bias-”

 

“Just like there’s a chance of bias for Humans looking into Human crime.” Lestrade cut in coldly, shooting Sally a weary glare before he turned to Sherlock apologetically. John watched his flatmate’s slow blink, feeling his unease only grow as the man’s gaze sharpened into interest. The case had already hooked Sherlock, via the strange circumstances or Sally’s own vehemence that he not be part of the investigation. Like a dog with a bone, John knew that there was nothing that was going to tear his flatmate away from the case, not when he had a chance to prove someone wrong about his right to be present.

 

“You think it’s a Gem made originally from the war, then. One that emerged late from the Earth.”

“There’s one witness, the victim’s daughter. Said she saw her father’s outline from their house down the hill over there.” Greg pointed at the darkening silhouette of a cabin, lonely and smoking from its chimney against the chill. “According to her, he was standing on top of the hill having a smoke when another shadow tackled him to the ground and out of sight. She said it was small, cat-like and looked supernaturally strong. It was glowing green.”

 

John shifted, shoulders tensing even as he felt the hum of something wrong thrumming down his spine. It was like being watched, though nothing made itself visible in the darkness. Feeling as though he was being sized up as prey, the ex-army doctor straightened, looking to Sherlock cautiously. The detective’s eyes were bright in the dark, nearly luminescent like the gem that glinted over his brow.

“Take me to the body, then.” Sherlock murmured, a chill wind picking up and tousling those curls, doing nothing to hide the man’s excitement. John felt a similar leap of thrill in his chest, beating in tandem with their footsteps shared as one along the rolling hills that would lead them to the torn apart body that was once Ernest Dailey.

 

****

It came out of the dark howling and savage, mouth dripping blood and eyes whitened by fury. Shooting out of the dark in a spined ball of rage it tore over the ground, causing the police to scream and scatter in response to its destructive wake. It tore through the crime scene, an acid-green ball of hate that made the hair on the back of John’s neck rise even as his Gem pulsed at his shoulder a drumbeat of excitement.

It was perhaps more than a bit-not-good, but he couldn’t help the frisson of thrill that came over him, even as Sherlock stepped into the creature’s path- blocking Lestrade from harm even as his gem glowed hot with power. Until that moment John had never seen Sherlock shed his human persona in front of the met, but now his skin burned blue, even as from his gem his weapon of choice emerged, pulled into reality by one spidery hand.

 

Like two lovers meeting in a kiss, bow to strings touched with a hum that made all of John’s nerves feel as though they were lighting up on end- set fire even as Sherlock inhaled deeply, drawing his bow savagely across his instrument as if he were a swordsman making a cut. The resounding screech that echoed over the land caused John to cringe, clapping his hands over his ears even as the rest of the police force crumpled to the ground, faces twisted in various contortions of pain.

 

The rogue Gem let out a shriek of enraged agony, stopping its destruction to become a figure that clutched at its head like it was threatening to crack open. With a pause in its rampage John saw its gem- resting on its chest and glinting in a sickly kind of way. _**Beryl,**_ his thoughts whispered. The Gem bared its teeth at Sherlock through its pain, hissing words that were as sharp as the jagged club it held as a weapon in one hand. Its eyes blazed, slits that stared at Sherlock before howling mindlessly, charging like a bull head-on.

Sherlock called out to John, his voice whip-like and sharp. He was a captain calling his men to attention, and it was instinct for the soldier to obey.

“It’s fast but stupid! Half-formed and driven crazy with bloodlust! Almost corrupted!” Those elegant fingers shifted along the violin’s neck then, and a new note shrieked out across the field. John winced, even as he reached inside of him and brought the Gem half of him out. He had never summoned his weapon before, wasn’t even sure if he could…

Yet Sherlock was looking at him expectantly, and a part of John knew he could not fail his friend, not even if his life depended on it.

 

It was as easy as breathing to slide into his other skin, the Gem’s power resonating through his blood, turning it to champagne bubbling and golden. John’s eyes closed, and when they opened his skin was the colour of the sun, his body both his own and not. He reached towards his shoulder where the gem shard sat, feeling the heat resonating off it but not the solidity of his own form. Instead his capable fingers grasped the handle of a gun, sliding from the invisible holster of his gem. It was brazen gold, metallic and warm in his palm. It felt to John like he had held it all of his life, with the way it sat comfortably in his hands.

He lifted the weapon, eyes bright even as he took aim steadily. A part of John realised belatedly that time had slowed to him, seemed to narrow to a pinpoint. All he could see was the wild Gem throwing itself towards Sherlock as if in slow motion, the detective’s eyes closed to the onslaught, his violin crooked in his neck and the quivering emblem of his melody ringing in the air.

 

John breathed, released the safety, then _fired_. What came from the gun was not a bullet, but an explosion of light that seemed to surge not from the weapon, but from John’s chest through his hands and into the metal. It shot as a beacon of light, brilliant as a star before it hit the Gem squarely in the chest. She barely had time to turn, knocked to the ground with the force of John’s power. There was a moment of silence as the Gem buckled under the force of it, shoved several feet back before howling in agony, corporeal for only an instant longer before abruptly erupting in a cloud of dust. The Gem lay in the long grass in the ensuing silence, until Sherlock finally broke the frigid atmosphere by stepping forward, reaching out to touch the polished stone. In his hands, John watched as a bubble formed about the Gem, sealing it effectively even as the detective straightened to face the Met inquiringly.

 

In the moonlight, it occurred to John just how alien his friend looked, bathed blue and silver in the dark with eyes far too wide, a figure curved femininely but taller than even a tall man. Then he considered his own appearance, and he felt a nervous flush dart over his skin. It was several moments before anyone could seem to get up from their disbelieving sprawls in the grass, and surprisingly the first of the Met to rise was Donovan. Her eyes were bright, but they were not looking at Sherlock, instead pinned onto John. Her voice stretched across the night, heavy with disbelief and something shockingly close to betrayal as she shouted.

“You’re... _one_ of them?!”

 

The automatic instinct to deny it hovered on John’s lips, insistent and irritated.

“I’m _not!_ I’m not a Gem! I’m _not-”_

It was without thinking that he shifted back to his more comfortable, doctorly form, the glow of his Gem receding and the weapon in his hand fading away to nothing. It was distractedly he noticed his own breathing had elevated, turning harsh against his lips and fogging outwards. From a distant point of view, John was somewhat aware that the sound of his own pulse rushing in his ears wasn’t normal, and that the look that Sherlock was now giving him even as he faded back to the detective everyone knew was concern masked by indifference. A panic attack, but over what John wasn’t quite sure. He’d had them before, especially during the first few weeks trapped in his bedsit. Yet this wasn’t the fear left over from a nightmare, this was a rush of seeing realisation that what he was habitually denying couldn’t be ignored. It was the prickling feeling of eyes upon him, friends turned to strangers in their wide-eyed stares.

It was a response to the voice in his head, muttering with a voice that was not his own.

__

_**Tanzanite. Citrine. Tanzanite. Citrine.** _

Then, more quietly:

_**Fuse.** _

 

Straightening as if he’d been electrocuted, John hadn’t noticed how close Sherlock had become. He narrowly avoided clipping the detective in the chin as he lifted his head, stepping back just in time even as bile rose sour in the back of his mouth. Looking past the detective to Lestrade’s pale face, the ex-army doctor realised that he wasn’t breathing. With a voice that grated harshly like it was coated in nails, John made his excuses.

“I-I have to go. You finish up the case. I’m… not needed.”

 _“John.”_ Sherlock murmured, and there was a shred of something underneath the burning intensity of that gaze. Ignoring its demand of attention, John stuffed his hands in his pockets, turning on his heel. He marched away towards the other side of the hill, shoulders hunched as if expecting a blow. Sherlock didn’t follow, but the soldier felt blue eyes glued to the back of his neck critically.

 

John pretended that the concentration of that stare didn’t excite him as much as it unnerved him.

****

_The Kindergarten Killer._

 

The case took on the macabre name due to the amount of media attention it received, and Sherlock took to the newfound fame of his name and his career like a martyr facing the pyre. He argued with John good-naturedly about the poor storytelling of his blog, even while reading avidly each time a new article was posted. Of course, John wasn’t meant to see the detective read them, but the army doctor was nothing if not sly and Sherlock only hid in his own room on the rarest of occasions. Life at _**221 B**_ took on a domestic quality once more, neither of them addressing the aftermath of the case, nor John’s nightmares which seemed to return with dogged frequency.

 

It wasn’t until the case that would later become The Blind Banker that things came to a head, and when they did they seemed to do so explosively. John knew little of Sherlock’s past, but he did know that the Gem seemed to have very few non-human friends besides John himself. Sherlock didn’t seem interested in other Gems, he barely at times seemed interested in humans, save for when he was in the midst of The Work. Often, John wondered if Sherlock had been part of the war at all- or if he had been made in the sparse few years that Britain had been at tentative peace with Gemkind.

 

So when the detective admitted to wanting to take on a case that was offered to him “by a past acquaintance” John honestly hadn’t known what to expect. A part of him thought that Sherlock would lead him to an old case like Mrs Hudson had been, someone grateful for his help but in trouble once more and in need of a consulting detective.

Instead John met Sebastian Wilkes, a man that was human and that owned a smile that was far more shark-like than friendly. The entire time he spoke, Sherlock’s own smile looked more and more politely forced. It was then that John slowly came to recognise that when the detective said “acquaintance” he had meant “enemy”.

“I worked with this bastard in communications between humans and Gems during the War. His brother had him in, giving him something to do. Put the wind up everybody. We hated him. We'd come down to breakfast during overnight pulls and this freak would know you'd been shagging your coworker.”

 

The man’s tone was cutting, and John felt irritation rise inside of him, expecting Sherlock to cut Wilkes down to size with a scathing remark. Instead John was surprised to see something like discomfort flit across the detective’s features, uncertainty. The detective’s voice was stiff, uncomfortable in the posh office that they sat in. He looked as though suddenly he’d like nothing more than to crawl into the massive bulk of his coat and hide.

“I merely observed.”

 

Sebastian’s smile seemed to only grow, and he cut off to cut an appraising look at John. His voice held in it a smirk as those brown eyes squinted slightly, picking out the soldier’s plain jumpers and unassuming manner.

“You his new friend, then? A broken Gem like him or a human that sympathises with _their_ kind.”

 

John’s hand twitched involuntarily, and it was without thinking that his upper lip curled and he responded with “ _Colleague,_ actually.” in kind.  It hadn’t meant to come out, and immediately John’s jaw had clenched in regret. It was just that between Lestrade’s wary looks, Sally’s loud-mouthed judgement and the whole of the Yard as of late looking at him as if he were of a different species… well, he wanted nothing to do with the idea of being a Gem sympathiser, even if to most he would be considered one.

 

There was the barest intake of breath, and John recognised an instant too late the implication of his words. In the corner of his eye Sherlock if possible slumped further into his seat, the walls of indifference shooting back up to mask unmistakable hurt. Biting his lip, John instantly wished he could explain, could apologise. Sebastian, looking for all the world like a cat that had gotten into the cream, only smiled wider and continued to mock Sherlock for all he was good at, all that he was.

It was the first time that John ever truly felt cruel towards his flatmate, and the twisting feeling didn’t leave him for the remainder of the meeting.


	4. Fusion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some more information about Sherlock's past is to come~ For now enjoy John trying to work out the detective's feelings, as well as his own :P

 

 

_You are not two people and you are not one person, you are an experience. Make sure you're a good experience **~ Steven Universe (Garnet)**_

 

John had never been good at dancing. A typical British male through and through, his few school social events had lead him to discovering quickly that he had two left feet, and possibly a third leg that was invisible, tripping him up. He mastered a few base moves to impress secondary school girls, but beyond that he was well and truly hopeless.

It just so happened that while he was attempting to get along with a normal, human girl (and Sarah was really quite nice- didn’t mind at all that he had a Gem partially lodged into his shoulder and was living with one too) that John happened to walk in on his flatmate dancing, and thought to himself: _Of bloody course Sherlock Holmes can fucking dance. Why did I not see this coming?_

That was, John thought this once he got his jaw up from off of the floor.

He had truthfully been avoiding the detective since the incident with Sebastian Wilkes, and over the weeks John had found the separation strangely painful, even though he still followed Sherlock whenever he left the flat looking for a trace of the man that could walk up walls. He went to bed early, hadn’t lingered in the livingroom as was his usual routine. It was likely the detective realised all of this, and the thought made John feel even guiltier. He was woken frequently on and off by the echoing shrieks of a violin being abused, but it always ended the moment he opened his eyes.

Now, standing in the foot of the kitchen and peering into the livingroom, John found himself rather starved for looking. His eyes couldn’t seem to pull away from Sherlock’s true form, Tanzanite dancing barefoot nearly soundlessly, the chairs pushed to the side to make room for the sweeping kick outwards the Gem made. Her movements to John could almost hark back to ballet, gentle and delicate and all about balance as she shifted to the ball of her right foot, hovering an instant before somehow melting into a fold that made the army doctor’s leg twinge in sympathy. Sherlock listened to no music, but Tanzanite moved in precise rhythm, the steps counted out so strictly that even someone as musically-challenged as John could see it within each step. The indigo tinge of her skin glowed in the lamplight, and the dark fan of her eyelashes seemed longer to John, half closed as they were.

It was a moment before he could collect himself enough to clear his throat, alerting his flatmate to his presence. Sherlock’s head turned immediately mid-pirouet upon the noise, the surprise of John’s presence enough for him to shudder back into his more human-looking form. If it weren’t for the fact that the detective normally didn’t do guilty, John would have guessed by the man’s expression that he honestly hadn’t expected the ex-army doctor to appear. There was a kind of caught-out expression on Sherlock’s face, well-hidden by a mask of indifference but lingering in the tension along the man’s spine. John, finding all words rather inadequate but knowing that to be silent would only make the situation worse, spoke. His voice came far more hoarsely than he intended.

“You… You dance?”

It was like John had somehow finally slipped into a mercury-brimmed madness, Sherlock looking distinctly uncomfortable at the question. Uncomfortable. The detective on a good day so far hadn’t really done much more than be gleeful or once, apologetic (asking for John’s war history had been a bit of a misstep on his part). John felt as if he was treading in unknown waters, and he had just as much of a chance of swimming as he did drowning in the ocean’s icy depths.

“Not really.” Sherlock murmured, his gaze strangely skittish. Despite the fact that his actions spoke contrary to his words, John sensed that probing further would cause his friend to bolt.

He didn’t him to, and the thought made John swallow uncomfortably, the first twinges of guilt hovering in his brain for his actions. It was in the beat of silence in which Sherlock merely looked at him as if silently begging him to leave that John spoke.

“I’m sorry. About… about Sebastian.”

“Whatever for? Nothing that you said was untrue.”

 _“Bollocks.”_ John denied, causing the detective to look up at him carefully through the fan of his lashes. He flushed a little at his own outburst, but found himself carrying on regardless. “Sherlock, nothing about what Sebastian implied was true. I don’t hate you, and anyone who does just… doesn’t see the things a mind like yours can do for this world.”

“I am not… _Human_ John.” Sherlock looked supremely uncomfortable with the outburst of emotion, but there was also a vulnerability in his posture. He was still listening to what John had to say, not just placating him. “Technically, it is _not_ my world.”

“You live here, don’t you?” John murmured, his hand trembling minutely. When he smiled, it held only the faintest trace of bitterness.

“By your logic, it’s not my world either. Yet most would say with my army record, I’ve contributed to its progression.”

To that, there was nothing that could be said. Sherlock’s eyes still flickered, uncertainty like a candle in his gaze. John, taking his silence to mean that the conversation was over, went to go make tea. He firmly vowed to keep the image of Tanzanite dancing out of his imaginings, and to ignore the little voice that almost constantly now whispered to him the word Fuse.

****

It wound up happening rather accidentally, in the end. The first time John saw Tanzanite Fuse with another Gem it was not with himself, but with Molly.

The Gem was a pathologist at St Bart’s, and it had been rather obvious from day one what she had a rather terrible crush on Sherlock, even if her skin hadn’t already had an usual pinkish blush to it. John watched as Molly (also known as Morganite to her friends) would follow the detective around much like a duckling, often trying to gain his attention and with varied or little result. John felt a certain amount of sympathy for her, if only because if a fellow Gem didn’t have a hope in the world of capturing Sherlock’s eye, then there wasn’t a chance in hell that he’d be able to. She let him use her outrageously, fetching him coffee or grabbing syringes for him: all for one little smile or nod of appreciation that did not appear nearly often enough.

It wasn’t until a particular case occurred in which the murderer was particularly good at hiding the cause of death of his patients that Sherlock finally paid her any mind. Sherlock was brilliant at deduction, lethal with Chemistry, and his knowledge of dead bodies came only second to someone who had been formally trained in pathology. It frustrated him endlessly that the murderer seemed to be walking circles about both the Yard and himself, and even John began to wish that the case might be solved, if only so he could catch some sleep. He yawned, bracing himself against the lab table and trying not to doze off. Sherlock paced, frenetic and tugging at his inky curls as if he might like to yank them out.

It was nearly four in the morning when, apparently reaching a breaking point Sherlock snarled, spinning to the pathologist (who had been watching the pair nervously for most of the evening) and demanding in a voice like a growl “Fuse with me.”

Whatever reaction John had been expecting, it hadn’t been for Molly to flush an even darker shade of blush than she normally already was. She was nearly the colour of the Gem which rested on the palm of her right hand, and she stuttered with whatever she had been about to ask.

“I’m-I’m sorry?”

“Fuse.” Sherlock repeated, blue eyes blazing even as he shifted into his true form, Tanzanite glowing blue and feminine and irritated. “I have the deductive skill but you have the knowledge. Together, our brain might be able to solve this case, and I haven’t much other option: John’s ready to fall asleep standing up.”

_“Sherlock.”_ John wasn’t certain exactly just how intimate Fusion normally was. The Fusions he’d known had been made for battle, savage creatures taller than trees, able to take out whole fleets of battalions with single strikes. Yet Molly was looking at Tanzanite as if the Gem had just asked her to strip naked, and it was clear the detective was growing rather impatient with the expression.

She snapped her fingers, breaking Morganite out of her stupor.

“We don’t have all day, _Molly!”_ The pathologist, like a startled lamb seemed to finally understand the nature of Tanzanite’s question, and John watched as she drew a deep breath, chocolate eyes closing. Seeming to draw strength from somewhere within, she asked Sherlock quietly.

“What’s your dance style?”

“The closest interpretation on this planet’s Swing Ballet.” Tanzanite replied, blue eyes looking over Morganite critically. John looked down at those indigo toes, already flexing against the linoleum. “Yours is Contemporary. They’re cousins, close enough to merge without too much trouble. I’ll lead.”

John, feeling as though he were exceptionally lost watched as the two Gems seemed to have in invisible conversation, one that he could have no hope of translating. It wasn’t until Molly broke her gaze away, taking a position that distinctly reminded John of his sister’s old ballet dance years that he realised: _Sherlock wanted to merge with Molly for her knowledge._

He didn’t have time to vocalise his opinion of this however, as Tanzanite was already moving. John watched as the Gem effortlessly twirled around the edge of the lab table, long legs carrying her in a rapid movement that was filled with life and energy. Tanzanite lifted Morganite up as if she weighed nothing at all, and the other Gem responded to the touch with an arched back, leg extending up into the air even as the other curved. John watched, mouth falling open as together, the two figures danced. What was more, with their dancing, both of their Gems seemed to glow, emitting a soft light that seemed to shimmer over their forms, engulfing Sherlock and Molly both. He found himself standing, the stool he had been sitting on clattering as he felt inexplicable fear lodge itself into his throat.

John watched as his two friends seemed to shudder, and suddenly there was one silhouette, coming together into a person that John had never seen before in his life.

She was tall, taller than both Molly and Sherlock, and had had an extra set of eyes that rested disconcertingly high on their face. Both sets opened, the top ones piercing blue, the bottom chocolate brown. She was lavender coloured, a shade just verging on purple, and her hair was very long and wild, curling about her shoulders. She had two Gems, one resting where Sherlock’s would normally, the other cupped in the palm of her hand as she flexed her fingers, as if trying them out experimentally. She wore a coat that was not unlike a lab-coat, except it draped much like Sherlock’s would, down to the ankles with a higher collar. When all four eyes landed on John, the soldier couldn’t help but feel as if he were at once looking at a friend, and a stranger.

“Um.” He said, which in retrospect was perhaps rather inelegant. The Gem responded by blinking, peering at him consideringly before speaking in a voice that was melodious but undeniably feminine.

“We’re called Iolite.”

“O….kay?” John responded, struggling rather to find his voice. Iolite as it were, sighed as if rather pained.

“John, we _know_ who you are. If you’re quite finished gaping at us like we’re the next victim of the murder case, could you please show us the body?”

The tone was Sherlock’s, but the please was not. Still, it somehow snapped John out of his daze, muttering apologies, he quickly lead the way, gesturing towards the morgue while all the while peering at Iolite out of the corner of his eye as if she were a new enemy he might or might not be assessing.

****

She was completely and utterly deadly when dealing with a body. That was the first thing John noticed, the irony of it not escaping him. Iolite took one look at the victim sitting on the cold metal table, and a scoff slipped from her parted lips, anger seizing across her features.

 _“Amateur._ Neither of us could figure this out?”

It was a little weird, John conceded, that Iolite spoke in plurals. Still he felt the inevitable question hover on his lips, looking to the Gem and ignoring the gaping hole of Not-Sherlock she was taking up.

“What do you see?”

Iolite fixed John with a steady gaze, a violet finger reached out to brush along the victim’s neck. The ex-army doctor, unable to help himself drew closer. He found the Gem pointing to an almost nonexistent mark, tiny.

“It’s a puncture wound.” The doctor side of him breathed “But Molly did a tox screen. There were no signs of chemicals-”

“That would be because there were none used.” She sounded almost amused, as if she were being indulgent. Tracing a line along the body’s trachea, the Gem murmured her deduction. “Air. By itself, we need it. We inhale it, both Human and Gems. Yet inject it into someone’s vein, and what do we get?”

“Embolism.” John blinked, realising quickly where this was headed. “Hard to detect, difficult to trace back…”

“Something our coroner didn’t expect, and so didn’t look for.” She sounded smug, and John looked up and saw the strangest combination of Sherlock’s smile coupled with Molly’s blush of satisfaction. It was an oddly childish expression, filled with glee.

_“Brilliant.”_ He murmured, and couldn’t help but feel the smallest twinge of delight when it only made the grin on the Gem’s face widen crookedly.

“Text Lestrade,” She ordered, all four eyes narrowing like a wolf following a scent keenly “Tell him you’re looking for a killer that is hiding his murders by making them look like heart attacks.”

****

The killer: one Joshua Hester was caught mere hours later. Lestrade apprehended him, and the blue glow of police lights cast an eerie shadow over the Yard, dawn fast approaching. The D.I didn’t seemed surprised when he found them, seeming to recognise Iolite and smiling tiredly up at her.

“It’s been awhile.” He murmured, shaking her hand in thanks. The Gem blinked in assent, her own voice answering not unkindly.

“Indeed, it has.”

“The last time I saw you two bond, it was for that copycat killer.” He scratched his grey hair in memory, brown eyes seeming to smile as he joked "You're always both easier and harder to work with than Sherlock. At least _you_  give me information."

“That was an interesting one.” She mused in a way that was neither Sherlockian nor much like Molly, the dark eyes blinking even as the pale blue ones flickered in John’s direction. The ex-army doctor was almost sure he’d be going home with a stranger, as up until now Iolite had shown no signs of unfusing.

Yet her words confused him, and in a moment he was somewhat relieved to be proven wrong.

“I’m afraid we must come apart now, though it is good to be ourselves again. _Tanzanite,"_ She shook her head as if in amusement "Always chasing after a new thrill.” She turned fully to John then, the purple-pink curls that haloed her face tumbling in the breeze of the night. “It’s been a pleasure, doctor Watson. Truly, a _pleasure.”_ She flashed him then a smile that was disarmingly affectionate, and it was all Molly’s openness and ease that appeared on Iolite’s features. “She won’t shut up about you, truly it’s nice to hear her be so vocal."

"Vocal?" John stuttered, the back of his neck heating up despite himself. The Gem carried on blithely, apparently unconcerned by his reaction. 

"Positively chattering away, why, I can barely think like ourselves, she's so completely besotted with you. Like a child with a new best friend, telling us all about you, and  _oops-_ She's offended poor Morganite now, poor thing."

"I don't... what?"

It was perhaps the most clueless thing to say, and yet John couldn’t help the pleased flush of surprise that made its way to his cheeks. Besotted? Sherlock? Really she had to be quite wrong, getting signals mixed up somewhere inside of herself. 

Instantly he saw the Gem shudder, her form trembling apart. Molly and Sherlock broke apart with violent momentum, the detective thrown to the ground and Molly stumbling backwards. An instant later, Sherlock was back on his feet, only to almost stumble once more as Molly uncharacteristically lunged for him, slapping him sharply across the cheek. Her face burned indignantly, and her eyes were uncharacteristically bright.

Sherlock rubbed at the spot she had struck him, looking up at her after a moment with his brows drawn tightly. His voice was uncharacteristically soft, subdued.

“I… suppose I deserved that.”

“Go to hell.” Molly spat, surprising Lestrade and John both with the venom in her words. Her normally sweet disposition was nowhere in sight, and her face was twisted in indignation. Without a word the Gem stalked off, apparently headed for the morgue to collect her things and be off. John watched her stomp away, feeling more confused than ever, his head swirling with thoughts that made no sense and were muddled all together.

Sherlock for his part seemed determined not to look anyone directly in the eye, his hands deep in his coat pockets as he seemed to collect himself with no small amount of effort. He nodded at Lestrade cordially, but his gaze was far away. It took John a moment to realise that he knew the expression that clouded the man’s features, although it was an expression that he hadn’t seen often on his friend’s face.

“Well then inspector, I believe John and I have wrapped up the facts for you rather nicely. We’ll come in tomorrow to give our full statements. As it stands now however, John looks ready to fall over and I have a few vital experiments running.”

“Sherlock-” The D.I tried to interrupt, stop the tide of information, but Sherlock appeared to be having none of it. He flicked his coat collar up against the chill air, leading the way for John with a silent jerk of his chin.

On autopilot the ex-army doctor followed, mumbling a confused goodbye to the inspector. He struggled to keep up with Sherlock’s frenzied, long-legged pace, the detective seeming to at once demand he come and yet wish to lose him.

He got nothing out of Sherlock Holmes that evening, no explanation of Iolite's words or even hissed insults to get him to go away. Nothing except a quiet explanation for Molly’s rage in the middle of a sulk. It was mumbled into the back of a sofa, Sherlock having chosen to curl up in his dressing gown tightly. He looked like a pill-bug, and John very nearly didn’t hear his words at all, lost as he was in a cup of tea and his own broiling thoughts at Iolite’s confession.

“Fusion… For Gems, it’s a very individualized experience.” John looked up from his newspaper at the rumble of Sherlock’s voice. The detective wasn’t facing him, but he didn’t need to, to know that his companion was listening. The Gem carried on, his voice low and sonorous, like rain pattering against a window pane. “I’ve never experienced… For many it is an expression of sentiment, as much as it is to make weaker Gems stronger. I do not see it that way, nor have I ever experienced a feeling of closeness with a Gem while Fusing. Pointless, it makes you weaker in the end if you do... But Molly…” He trailed off, seeming to hesitate before continuing. “You can read the person’s innermost thoughts, should they leave themselves open to it. I underestimated the strength of my… Iolite is driven by _my_ passion, but she does not have my control. That side of things… _Molly_ is her filter of emotions. Molly experiences both our feelings towards things and then… projects how Iolite expresses them. It’s… she thought it was rude, and rather rightly so, for me to unintentionally express my feelings to you while Fused to her.”

“I don’t understand. I don't even really think I know what your feelings _are,_ Sherlock.” John answered honestly, because he didn’t. He did not know what was going on in his friend's mind, other than the fact that Iolite had admitted that the detective liked to spend time with him, and perhaps a bit more. Sherlock himself didn't seem to know, and the detective seemed equal parts frustrated and infuriated by the fact. 

The Gem made a rather exasperated sound through his teeth, burrowing closer into the cushions. His sigh was one of quiet defeat.

“That’s because you’re an idiot, John. Also Human.” It was not a jibe made of cruelty, but rather a weak attempt to sound scathing.  John smiled softly in response, more used to this kind of reaction. 

“I guess I don’t.” He murmured, rising up onto his bare feet and stretching his arms overhead. He was dead tired, and dawn would be in a few hours. He thankfully however, didn’t have to go into surgery tomorrow. 

Walking over, John brushed a hand absently over the detective’s curls, a smile twitching on his lips at the way Sherlock instinctively leaned into the motion like a pleasured cat. John headed towards his room, his parting words somehow an olive branch to the detective’s waspish mood.

“Technically Sherlock, I’m not _even_ Human. Not any more.” His tone was not exactly bitter, more accepting. The ex-army doctor headed up, the stairs creaking in his absence and leaving the Gem on the sofa in the dark.

Sherlock- _Tanzanite_ , stayed up a while longer to think, her true form melting into realisation as she let her Gem glow. It provided a bluish lantern that illuminated the living room like a silver star, turning raven curls aglow and those blue eyes shimmering, wide awake in the early hours of dawn.

Something might have happened, come that morning. At least, if it hadn't been for the fact that London was woken up by an explosion, with a calling card that demanded one  _Sherlock Holmes._


	5. Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter is a short one but an important one. ^.^ If you want to hear the song I imagined John listening to on the radio, it's right [ Here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t5L_ZL9m15Q).

 

_Where did we go? What did we do? I think we made something, entirely new. And it wasn't quite me, and it wasn't quite you, I think it was someone entirely new **~ Ruby and Sapphire (Steven Universe)** _

 

Sometimes, when he was very sure that he was alone in the flat, when the right song came on the radio, and John didn’t have much to do, he’d find himself trying to dance.

 

It wasn’t really anything complicated, he had the rhythm sense of an elephant on morphine, approximately. To be exact it was more of a wiggling in his hips, a sashay or a shimmy of his torso. John didn’t know where this new craving to move came from, but he had a pretty good suspicion. His gem would glow occasionally as he moved, and he found he didn’t even really mind when without his real consent, he’d shift into his more Gem-like form.

 

John was very careful, making sure that Sherlock did not know of these new urges. His flatmate was already stepping about him like he was a stranger, and John truthfully just wanted them to return to their original dynamic, this strange “something else” between them not quite a reality and so awkward and clumsy in its manifestation.

A part of him thought to hide it, if only because every time the song on the radio ended, all John could hear through the slow thrumming in his ears was the voice in his head, muttering **_Fuse._ **

 

It might have gone this way forever, if it hadn’t been for the fact that Sherlock was rather prone to invading people’s personal space.

With the introduction of the mysterious shadow that was Moriarty hitting the news, causing chaos and making the city of London shift in unease, Sherlock became increasingly restless. John woke to experiments left undone, with no real order to their nature or an end-goal except it seemed to make a mess in their shared living room. He also woke to his detective either lost in malaise or caught up in a manic energy in turn.

Really, John should have been more careful. He knew that when Sherlock was like this, the Gem’s idea of Human manners frayed and blurred and faded away.

 

The radio was playing softly, and John was moving to it in his bedroom slowly, a back and forth kind of sway as he got lost in the gentle rhythms of the music. Love songs, love songs were easy to dance to, their lyrics soft and their energy softer.

 

John was a bit absorbed, and truthfully later he’d be embarrassed by how caught up he could get when he wasn’t paying attention. He had already transformed, Citrine’s body somehow better at the swaying movements they liked, more fluid.

In the end, it was Sherlock that made himself known, a soft inhale of breath causing John’s rhythm to falter.

 

His head snapped up, and he saw the detective standing in his doorway, hand poised to knock and somehow forgotten. For a moment, John saw Sherlock’s features open and slack, unhidden because they were not expecting to be seen. There was a dark sort of burning in the detective’s eyes, a yearning that made John’s breath catch and his heart stutter in his chest in surprise. It was a look that was too intimate, too personal for a friend, and though the two of them seemed to regularly tiptoe around those lines, too close for flatmates and too distant for lovers, it seemed for a moment that the divide had finally been crossed.

 

Of course, as soon as Sherlock noticed that John was staring, the walls seemed to come over him like a liquid tide. John watched as those fine features abruptly schooled themselves, though not even Sherlock could completely hide the dark flush that heated his cheeks. John, still Citrine in appearance took initiative, closing his eyes and shifting back into his more familiar form. The last dying dregs of music from the radio seemed to fill their awkward silence, drifting away to nothing. The two of them stared at one another for a moment, and all John could hear over the pounding of his own heart was that damn voice:

**_Fuse. Fuse. FUSE._ **

 

“There’s been a break. In the case, I mean.”

Sherlock’s voice rumbled, breaking John out of the panicked loop of his thoughts and breaking the awkward silence. He looked to see the detective was indeed dressed in his trademark coat and scarf, looking for all the world like he had just been about to drag John out of the flat and to the Yard.

“The Moriarty one, you mean?”

Slowly, Sherlock nodded. He held out his mobile, which John could now see the screen of. Squinting, he could make out a text message, from an unknown number with emoticons written in. It was the sort of text that looked like it belonged on an advertisement involving teenagers.

“Five… seeds?” John asked tentatively, to which the detective rumbled a partial agreement.

“Pips, to be precise. Orange pips.”

“What’s it mean?” Because the way that Sherlock was looking at him intently, John knew that it wasn’t just a random coincidence that the emoticons were resembling orange pips.

 

Sherlock’s lips twisted minutely in a small smile of approval, and for a moment the awkward beginning of their meeting was forgotten. The detective revealed from behind his back John’s coat, throwing it to him with only the barest hint of hesitation. John caught it instinctively, his fingers wrapping into the soft leather.

“It means that we need to pay a visit to Lestrade, because people are going to begin to die if we don’t figure out the case soon.”

Sherlock’s voice sounded entirely too pleased for such a morbid sentence, and John had to shake his head with a small smile. A wave of affection threatened to bubble over in his chest, unseen as even as he spoke, the detective was already halfway out the door.

 

John’s dancing was left forgotten for the moment, and the ex-army doctor privately hoped that enough action would occur on this journey that it would be a permanent dropping of the subject.

 

****

Bombs.

Moriarty was apparently in the habit of strapping people to semtex, and the pips were apparently just the beginning. John felt a chill in his blood as it became apparent that they were facing a terrorist of sorts, seemingly intent on getting not only Sherlock’s attention, but the world.

No one knew what Moriarty looked like, but within the span of an evening it seemed that there wasn’t a news broadcast that would shut up about him.

 

Luckily, Sherlock so far at least seemed to be able to keep up with the criminal, even if the hoops that the Yard was being put through were terrible. The first was the phone call, John watching as Sherlock answered, only to go still with the realisation of what was happening.

_Tick-Tock, Mr Holmes, or we all go kaboom._

 

Sherlock managed to solve it, but it was a near thing. John could still feel the bubbling dregs of adrenaline in his bloodstream even as they went home for the evening, the night casting dark shadows over Baker Street and making Sherlock look like a wraith. Both of them were exhausted, and yet John felt as though he wasn’t as nearly exhausted as he should be. There was a trembling in his limbs, a sort of desperation. He had seen the way Sherlock had panicked, carefully concealed under his mask of indifference. He thought the sight might haunt him, memories of the war still lingering under his eyelids if he dared to close them.

John expected nightmares tonight, he wasn’t sure he was going to be able to escape them.

Prolonging the imminent evening of slow torture, the ex-army doctor sighed to himself and wandered to the kitchen, looking for tea and something warm and comforting.

 

He set out two mugs, the water just beginning to boil when quiet footsteps sounded behind him. Sherlock didn’t speak, but John could feel his gaze like a low burn on the back of his neck. He did his best to ignore it, the trembling in his hand his main focus as he went about trying to make sure he didn’t spill boiling water on himself.

Of course, the detective refused to be ignored for long.

“John,”

Sherlock’s voice was filled with something unidentifiable, and John refused to look up from his teacup, still empty of boiling water. He was afraid if he did, the humming in his veins would overwhelm him. Like a supernova he’d go off, throw himself at the man across from him, to hell with consequence.

It was a mistake he couldn’t afford. Sherlock seemed determined he make it anyway.

 

The detective’s fingers were warm and long, and they touched the back of his neck hesitantly in a way that made John want to shudder away and lean into the contact. Two sides of him, clashing for dominance. Seeming to sense his thoughts, Sherlock gently, gently turned him around, forcing John to face him in the dim of the kitchen light.

Sherlock’s eyes were prone to be many different colours, but looking up now John saw that they were the exact shade of his gem, a deep indigo-blue that seemed endless and surreal. Licking his lips, John couldn’t stop himself from glancing helplessly at the plush shape of Sherlock’s lips, noting their proximity to one another. He had once admitted that he didn’t know Sherlock’s intentions, couldn’t read the man as well as he would’ve liked when it came to matters of romance. The whispers of _I’m married to my work_ still haunted him, and John’s stomach twisted with illness at the idea that even now he could still be reading it wrong.

 

It didn’t stop him though, couldn’t. Not when Sherlock wouldn’t stop looking down at him, his expression strangely vulnerable. Not with Iolite’s voice muttering in John’s ear about how the detective’s thoughts were supposedly filled with _him._

Not when his other half, Citrine was shuddering inside of him, warm and filled with longing.

**_Fuse._ **

 

It was without thinking that John’s hands came to grip the sleeves of Sherlock’s shirt, pulling the man down until their lips came to touch, achingly soft and desperate not to be wrong.

 _Kiss me back._ John found his thoughts begging desperately, his eyes fluttering closed. He wished in that moment harder than he ever had before, equal only to being shot out in the desert, bleeding under the hot sun and pleading for his life.

_Please, just kiss me back._

 

It was only after the barest breath of hesitance, that Sherlock did. The glow of their gems, bright and burning like fire in the evening light, was the last thing that either of them saw apart.

 

****

When they opened their eyes, they were no longer Citrine, and no longer Tanzanite. Well, they were and they weren’t, a strange muddling that felt new and strange and not-quite-themselves.

 

Yet a name whispered in their minds, and instinctively they reached out for it, their eyes opening wide.

**_Aventurine._ **

 

She looked down at her hands, long and delicate, tinged a jade green. It was disorienting, to be looking out from four eyes instead of two. The kitchen seemed brighter somehow, more detailed. She was also taller, towering even above Sherlock’s height. As her hands came to the top of her head, she realised that her hair was curly, yet her cheeks rounder than Sherlock’s.

Her gems sat shimmering bright green, one on her forehead, and one at the shoulder.

 

Breathing sharply through her nose. she spoke out into the silence, surprised as her voice hummed both lower, and higher than she expected.

“Well… this was. Unexpected.”

Tentatively, she tried to take one step forward. The Gem wasn’t particularly thrilled when instead she just fell on her face.


	6. Fire Exposes Priorities

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yay a new chapter~ Thank you all for being patient with me ^_^ I hope you enjoy.

 

 

_Love takes time and work. At the very least you have to know the other person, and you have no idea who, or what, I am. **~ Steven Universe (Garnet)** _

 

Aventurine was clumsy, when she first came to be. Her limbs were new, longer and shorter than she was used to, and she was quite a bit taller than either John or Sherlock. She nearly hit her head on the door frame as she stumbled and ducked through it, and her toes stubbed themselves on the edge of the couch before she managed to wobble into it. Like a newborn deer, it felt as though she was uncertain of where her edges lay.

 

Breathless, she laughed and stared at her legs stretched out before her. Green, she was bloody _green._ That was John’s amazement, she could feel. Sherlock was slightly less incredulous, having at least had the experience of fusing before. Some of Aventurine’s shock melted away into worry, and _that_ was the detective, wondering if he had somehow crossed a line.

 _Don’t be a git._ John’s voice whispered, sensing Sherlock’s distress. _I wanted this, just as much as you did._

 

Warmth then filled them, and she was Aventurine in her mind once more, a mingling of the two Gems that had come together to create something new and _brilliant_ and _wonderful._ John and Sherlock both felt it, and both were able to name the emotion shared between them.

_Affection._

She was on her feet then, springing upwards much like Sherlock would, John’s laugh on her tongue. She twirled about the flat, dancing in her home with stilted and awkward movements, nevertheless joyful. In that moment, she was limitless. In that moment, she was free as a bird, and she swore she might fly if only given the chance to run and never, _ever_ stop.

 

Aventurine, childlike and gleeful as she was, did not hear the measured steps that approached the door to **_221 B._ ** It was only the tap of the umbrella that alerted her, and even then, it was too late. She spun, and John felt the abrupt closeness in his mind tear, Sherlock _wrenching_ himself out of the fusion so brutally that John felt a physical ache with the sensation.

 

Mycroft Holmes stood in the doorway, looking at the two men that had come apart with his entrance, now lying on the floor. John groaned, his backside aching with the harsh landing onto the hardwood. Sherlock however was already on his feet, adjusting the buttons of his sleeves and his eyes strangely… cold.

“Brother,” The detective greeted neutrally. He did not look at John, and still pained the soldier didn’t much notice at first.

 

“Blud,”

Sherlock murmured, yet the clench of his jaw implied that a hundred other meanings lay underneath the rather archaic greeting. John frowned as he saw how shifty the detective suddenly seemed. Sherlock was eyeing escape routes as if he were a dog cornered, and John got the impression that there was an entire conversation being left unsaid between the two brothers. It crackled instead in the air, a living and breathing thing.

“To what do we owe this… _conveniently_ timed visit?”

 

If Mycroft was studying his sibling’s paint-stripping glare, he chose to ignore it. He smiled instead in his typical oily manner, tapping the end of his umbrella in front of him before speaking. Mycroft, John thought, spoke rather like his words were cupped in orbs of glass- delicate and rounded and smooth. Posh. He wondered if back on the Gem Homeworld, there were etiquette classes and lessons on how to be at once polite and completely condescending.

“You were missed at last weekend’s gala. I had several courtesans ask after you.” Pale eyes narrowed, and John felt a whisper of the elder Holmes’ power trickle into the air like a ghost. _Diamond. Obey._ “In particular, a certain aristocrat’s Pearl was asking after your, shall we say, _unique_ abilities.”

Sherlock had made a scoffing sound of dismissal at the mention of a gala, yet John noticed the way the man’s eyes sharpened upon his brother’s later admission. Rising from the floor, he could tell that the detective despite his false indifference was now properly paying attention.

“Let me guess? Lost pet? Missing personal effects?”

 

Mycroft studied the handle of his umbrella, and John saw a glimmer of shark-like derision in the Gem’s expression. Smoothly, he replied.

“Blackmail. She’s being threatened by another member of the aristocracy. Some… rather compromising photos were taken, and if they were to be made public… well. The Gem Homeworld would be a chaotic place indeed.”

“Dull.” Sherlock rolled his eyes, apparently already disinterested. Yet the elder Holmes apparently wasn’t finished.

 

Out of his suit jacket, Mycroft manifested a manila envelope, holding it out towards the detective. Sherlock scowled, but a moment later delicate fingers reached outwards, snatching it up. Beside him, John craned his neck as the detective opened the folder. What he saw was an image that appeared to be an advertisement.

John’s eyebrows lifted up towards his hairline as he saw just what was being sold.

 

The ivory, bare expanse of a woman’s back greeted them, smooth save for the glittering Gem that say ensconced by sculpted shoulder blades. It glittered blood red, the only spot of colour in an otherwise black and white photo. The woman wasn’t facing the viewer, instead seated so that just a peek of black lace lingerie lingered at her hip. In red lettering at the bottom was a title:

_Irene Adler- Professional Dominatrix_

 

****

A sex-scandal.

Out of all the things that could have taken Sherlock into a case high, it wouldn’t have been the first on John’s list. It would have been even further down the list normally, as it had come from Mycroft.

 

Yet the detective seemed utterly intent on the puzzle, and it took John a while to realise why. Sherlock held a nervous energy about him throughout most of the week, darting around John as if he were sitting in a bonfire. He was erratic, often trailing off in his sentences, and he would not look John in the eye. They did not speak of the Fusion, and John was reluctant to bring it up himself, their relationship somehow fragile.

 

Sherlock had become removed, and the army doctor couldn’t help but feel it was in some way, somehow, his fault. John kept his silence, though his dreams were filled with longings and he kept wondering if it would feel that wonderful again, to be completely one with his flatmate. Sherlock for his part, seemed to believe that even touching him might bring about a breaking point between them.

After about two weeks of this, John was getting used to feeling a vague bundle of tension turning his stomach around like a salad tosser. It burned into something more heated when Sherlock finally declared that they were going to pay one Irene Adler a visit.

 

“She wants something for the photos, but she’s being coy as to her demands. It’s time to take things _to_ her.” Sherlock murmured this while reaching for his scarf. On the surface, it was a logical conclusion, and John could find no fault with it. Yet the smaller, more jealous side of him thought of how intently the detective had been scrolling through Adler’s website as of late. He thought of Sherlock’s avoidance, his careful insistence that not even their hands brush in passing. It was with a small scowl to himself that he followed, the bad feeling in his stomach only getting worse as Sherlock hailed a cab.

 

****

Gems as a race tended to choose their forms to best-suit their purpose. In the old ways of Gem Homeworld, a caste system had once existed that had been rigidly upheld. Though that caste didn’t exist to the same extent on Earth, many Gems still chose their forms to best suit what they would have once been made for. The pretty ones did showings, the strong ones became gym instructors or action stars, and the brilliant ones… well, John assumed that they either ended up like Sherlock, or actually earned respectable careers.

 

It was clear to John upon entering the home of Irene Adler that she came from a line of Gems best-designed to rule. A Pearl opened the door upon their arrival, and her petite presence alone alerted John to the fact that Adler came from old power. The Pearl introduced herself as “Kate”, and she took Sherlock’s ruse as a priest that had been assaulted with stride (and oh, how _that_ had been satisfying to help out with). Her gem glittered on her shoulder, hidden and yet not under a sheer blouse.

“Come right this way, please.”

 

The click of her heels sounded loudly on the tiles of the floor. John found himself staring at ivory walls and chandeliers, feeling quite out of place in his simple jeans and button-down. He was a veritable pigeon amongst peacocks, what with Sherlock’s presence and Kate’s code of dress. John and Sherlock were lead into a clean-looking foyer, and according to plan John soon excused himself. Even if he didn’t agree with Sherlock’s schemes, he knew better than to argue when in the midst of enemy territory.

 

****

Irene Adler was indeed, a sight to behold. This was mostly due to the fact that she seemed to have a penchant for wandering about completely and totally naked. She entered a room like she was utterly unconcerned of the consequences, all sharp smiles and curves that made John’s eyes linger and his lips pinch in distress.

Worse, was that Sherlock looked at her not as he usually did with other women, or even other Gems, but with a struck expression that to John’s jealous mind interpreted as enthralment. Perhaps it was true that Irene had stripped herself of anything that might lend a deduction, but it didn’t mean that the detective had to _stare._

 

“Someone loves you.” Irene cooed down at the Sherlock, and John closed his eyes for a moment in pain because in a moment, his cards had been read. Luckily, the detective seemed far too thrown off by the entire situation to much notice. His blue eyes darted from Irene’s face and away, and he looked strangely young and uncertain even as the Woman pulled the white card from around his neck, placing it between her teeth with a snarl.

 

John saw the gem on her back, glittering crimson. A voice in his head murmured the name even as Irene caught his gaze and smirked.

 _“Carnelian,”_ She and the voice seemed to say in unison, and John felt a small shiver charge up his spine. Her gaze was razor-sharp, startlingly similar to a certain detective’s. Yet he felt no real interest in this Gem, who looked at the world as if she were a viper, hungry for her next meal. “Pretty as a picture, but your eyes certainly don’t seem to need to be directed as where to look.”  

Irene cocked her head to the side then, smile slowly widening.

 

“You have something that is making you the target of several dangerous individuals.” Sherlock cut in then, apparently finding his voice. Irene’s smile wavered, and she back off a bit to go and take a seat in a dark leather chair. She crossed her arms over herself with practiced ease, putting on a business-like mask that made John wonder if she had planned to catch their interest from the start.

“As part of the contract for my… services I require security. I know what a lot of high-ranking individuals, both Human and Gem alike. If their position is unfavourable in the public eye, I could be put at risk.”

 

“Photographs,”

Sherlock murmured, his voice low with thought. Irene flicked him an approving glance, even as she wryly asked if John was going to sit. John, still a bit lost and fuming, did so after a slow flush. Sitting beside Sherlock, he swore he could feel the energy humming in the detective’s bones. _Interest,_ in Irene Adler. “You wanted physical evidence of your encounters to use as leverage should it be necessary… but someone didn’t approve.”

 

“She certainly didn’t mind it during the act itself.” Irene replied primly, sniffing in annoyance. “But now she’s got you and your brother after me, and I’m at a loss. It’s made other more _distasteful_ groups think they can bully me into giving over the pictures, which simply won’t do.  I _can’t_ give over the photographs, Mr Holmes. My clients are my protection. So long as there is _evidence,_ I am safe. It’s my policy.”

 

A power game then. It sort of figured, given the nature of the Woman’s profession. John ran his tongue over his teeth, considering the angles of the case. Irene’s position made sense, but it did not change the fact that she held extremely delicate information. He sensed Sherlock’s glance, and excused himself quietly once more, claiming to be searching for the loo. Irene barely glanced at him, her gaze merely locked on Sherlock. John felt an inordinate amount of satisfaction in his role of the plan.

 

****

The fire alarm wailed plaintively with John’s ministrations to it, but it didn’t last for long. Burning pieces of paper was efficient enough, but he was soon distracted from his work. This was due to the fact that its shriek muffled the sound of Kate answering the door. The Pearl fell to the ground with a dull thud, and John turned just a second too late. He found the muzzle of a gun pressed against his temple, a cold voice with a foreign accent cutting over the blare.

“You’ll take us to Irene, won’t you? Her Help’s feeling a little under the weather.”

 

John raised his hands slowly in surrender, his gaze flicking to Kate’s prone form. He wasn’t allowed to check on the Pearl, instead finding himself being used as a living guide to the foyer.

 

Upon entering, John found that Irene had at some point donned Sherlock’s coat. The sight sent another pang of jealousy, settling into his bones and leaving him to conclude that today indeed was going to be A Bad Day. Sherlock, seeing the gun pressed to his companion’s head rose, hands already drawing up into the air even as his eyes flicked towards the mirror, now pushed upwards to reveal a safe.

 

John understood the gesture, but he wasn’t sure exactly what could be done about it. The Gems behind him would have likely been able to find it eventually. He grit his teeth, his bad leg protesting as he was pressed down to the floor. A calm had settled into his bones, even as adrenaline began to pump itself rawly into his system. Irene soon joined him, Sherlock’s dark coat seeming to dwarf her frame.

 

“Don’t you want me on the floor, too?” Sherlock’s tone was faintly mocking, but his eyes kept drifting to the gun pressed against John’s skull. His fingers twitched faintly, as if he was resisting the urge to rip the gun out of the other Gem’s grasp. The detective wouldn’t have stood a chance however, not physically. John had caught a glimpse of the Gem holding him captive before he’d been forced to turn, and what he had seen had turned his blood cold. A warrior type, their Gem tiger-striped and cold blue. He hadn’t seen enough for the voice to whisper a name, but he had seen the intimidating height of the creature. Compared to Sherlock’s slight form, it would be like pairing a mongoose against a panther.

 

John could sense the twist of the man’s words behind him, how it felt like his captor was smiling. He swallowed, keeping his gaze trained on Sherlock’s shoes.

“No, sir, I want you to open the safe.”

 

Sherlock’s head tilted to the side in consideration, catching the accent.

“American. Interesting, why would _you_ care?”

“Sir, the safe, _now_ please.”

“I don’t know the code.”

There was a click of the safety of the gun being removed, and John briefly reflected on the fact that he was likely going to end up bleeding for Sherlock Holmes. It wouldn’t have been the first time, and somehow that thought threatened a hysterical sort of laughter to build up inside of him. He stifled it, cringing away from the weapon.

 

Sherlock, voice agitated once again reiterated the fact that he didn’t know the code. Despite the other Gem’s skepticism, John could hear the honesty in the detective’s voice. It frightened him, because the Gem pressing a weapon to his skull didn’t seem to care and didn’t trust Irene enough to glean the numbers from her. His heart began to pound, and in the back of his mind John caught glimpses of sand-blasted deserts and blood and gunfire. He didn’t think Sherlock had ever seen someone die of a headshot before. A part of John prayed that now wouldn’t be the time that the detective discovered just how brutal they could be.

 

“Mr Archer,” Another voice spoke then, the other Gem. His tone was falsely polite. “At the count of three, shoot Dr Watson in the head.”

“What?”

_“I don’t have the code.”_

John cowered as the gun pressed itself more firmly to his skull. From beneath the fan of his lashes, he could see Sherlock beginning to pale.

 _“One.”_ The man said.

“I don’t know the code!”

_“Two.”_

Sherlock’s voice rose then, taking on a faintly manic edge.

“She didn’t tell me! I don’t know it!”

 

John caught a flicker, just the barest glimpse of blue. He felt his heart drop into his stomach. Gems could generally hold their more humanistic form. Yet... _Sherlock was flickering back and forth._

 

It was apparently noticed, because a low chuckle rumbled from the Gem’s lips. He stopped his countdown for a moment, musing in interest.

“A defect and a half-blood, together. How appropriate.”

John didn’t know what it meant, but he knew the tone. Cruel, callous. He had little time to think on it.

_“Three.”_

The Gem growled, and John quickly squeezed his eyes shut, preparing for the inevitable.

 

What came instead was a shout from Sherlock.

“No! _Stop!”_

With the cry, Sherlock’s outer appearance seemed to shatter. Tanzanite stood before them, and in the shock of the change, the detective and Irene both worked it to their advantage.

“Vatican Cameos.” Tanzanite hissed, even as Irene in a glow of power, shifted into her true form. John rolled, hearing a hard grunt from beside him as the Gem holding Carnelian suddenly fell to the ground. John caught a glimpse of Irene’s weapons, glittering in her hands fierce red. Twin daggers. A sharp jerk, and the Gem that had now lifted his gun away from John’s head in shock was also taken out in a flash of speed.

 

John was already transformed into Citrine as he got to his feet, peering at the wound Irene’s weapon had made. It pulsed black, sickly and poisonous. Carnelian twirled the daggers in her hands, their form disappearing as the threat lay immobilised on the floor.

 

She grinned as John got a look at her true form, red like fire, the kind of tight but functional clothing that an assassin might wear. She smiled, and it was a cruel twist of her lips as she brought up a hood to half-conceal her face.

“Well, that was a nuisance.” Cold eyes turned to Sherlock, and she arched a delicate brow. Tanzanite stood stock-still, her face twisted in an expression that John took a moment to identify as shame.

He realised then, she hadn’t meant to transform.

 _She couldn’t control her shift._ Worse, she would not meet John’s eyes.

 

“I _did_ already give you the code, though. You just weren’t _paying attention_ long enough to notice.” Irene huffed, as if the detective wasn’t just standing frozen amongst the carnage. She stepped forward lightly, the click of her boots loud on the tiled floor. Past Sherlock, towards the safe. Irene pressed her fingers to the keypad, dialing in the numbers. She pulled out a blackberry phone, holding it in her hands triumphantly. She levelled Sherlock with a cool smile.

 

“Your measurements.” Sherlock said numbly, and John then felt the dominatrix’s eyes land on him. It seemed to John that she was taking everything Citrine was, everything _he_ was. Carnelian took one look at his horrifically scarred, golden shoulder, his unassuming height, the way he favoured one of his legs. John felt as if she were looking through him, and not really taking in anything but the broken, badly-stitched together fusion of Gem and Human he had become. Irene’s voice was quiet, but it cut to the heart of the matter quickly.

“Fire exposes our priorities, Holmes, but it also makes us blind to the obvious.”

 

By way of answer, Tanzanite merely shifted back to her more Humanoid form, looking positively frigid.

All of John’s hopes for a second attempt at Fusion it seemed, had been discarded for the foreseeable future.


	7. Defect

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Whispers into the void* I am S O S O R R Y this took so long. *rolls into the void with all of my writing drafts in tow*

 

_I always thought, I might be bad, now I'm sure that it's true. 'Cause I think you're so good, and I'm nothing like you. **~ Steven Universe (End Credits)** _

 

It was like living with a passive-aggressive cat, John decided. Since the incident at Irene’s home, Sherlock had done his utmost to alternate between wildly hot and cold responses. One second he was treating him like he was his best friend, pulling him along for cases or trailing his hands just a second too long on the hem of his shirt collar or sleeves. The next, Sherlock was treating him like he was an idiot, whiplash temper mercurial and cruel.

 

John was getting used to feeling like he was walking on eggshells in his own home, and it frustrated him and made him despair in equal amounts. He felt like he had been so close to getting Sherlock to open up, so _trust_ him, and thanks to _that Woman_ it had all gone to shit.

 

Irene was another issue that the two of them danced around, though John would privately admit to himself that it was as much his own fault as Sherlock’s. He didn’t know how to keep his footing around her, and he felt like the gaze she levelled him was at once hungry and dismissive. Irene’s true focus was on Sherlock and his brilliance, anyone could see that with half a brain to them. Yet Sherlock seemed completely uninterested, at least towards the sexual aspect. John wondered to himself if Sherlock even _felt_ those kinds of urges at all, Gem biology a mystery to him. He knew enough to be aware that some Gems _could_ feel sexual impulses, but that many were simply not designed or interested in such things. They were a race that procreated by _devouring_ other planets, they didn’t have a _need_ for such things.

For all he knew, Sherlock was unable to respond in the way Irene wanted them to, Tanzanite not a Gem prone to such feelings.

 

At least, if Sherlock could help it, he seemed determined to keep it that way. A wall had been formed, and its only purpose was to keep John out and away from the detective’s true emotions.

 

John sighed to himself as he reflected upon it, leaning his head back so it brushed the back of his chair. His hands fiddled uselessly in his lap, the quiet of the flat sitting uneasy with him. Sherlock was out, though that lately was no surprise. He wished he could take it all back, bitterness creeping through his chest. If he hadn’t been an _idiot,_ and showed his hand, he could at least _pretend_ he wasn’t hopelessly caught up in his flatmate. John was practically _pining_ at this rate, and the thought filled him with a wave of self-loathing and disgust.

Right then, no more moping.

 

He forced himself up and out of his chair, determined to do something to take his mind off of Sherlock. He would go outside, go for a walk, or even a run (he hadn’t done that since his army days, and in truth the idea of sweating his frustrations out a little appealed to him just then). John nodded to himself, determination renewed. A nice, long jog in Regent’s Park was what he needed, to clear his mind and to make him more himself and less of _Citrine._

John rubbed at the shard lodged in his shoulder absently, his mind made up. He ran upstairs to change, shedding his jeans and jumper for plain black shorts and an old cotton shirt. In the back of his mind a voice whispered, pleading.

_Fuse._

 

It was soon drowned out by the rhythmic drum of feet on pavement.

 

****

John had not always been a fan of fitness. As a boy he’d been rather lazy, a strong preference for indoors and books making him tend towards a bit of chub and a lack of general confidence. Rugby had changed that, his dad fearing that if he left his son to his own devices he’d soon fuse into the couch.

 

With rugby, came interval drills. Fast running, coupled with short breaks, so that one’s heart struggled to adjust to the pace and so worked harder. John loved it with a burning passion, because it made him unable to _think._ It cleared his head, made everything minimalised and simplistic. There was only running, and movement, and sound and sight. There was only the salt of sweat and chasing the sunrise or sunset in vain. When he had been shot, running had been taken from him in all forms. He had been barely able to walk without a cane, and every day his leg had caused him pain. It had been excruciating, moldering away in that beige bedsit with only his own thoughts and his slow, plodding pace.

 

When he was running as fast as he could, he couldn’t hope to think so much of Sherlock. There was a burn in his lungs, the twinge in his thighs that sang of _more_ and _faster._ The breaks in between were only made sweeter for it, each gulp of air a blessing that he drank in greedily.

A half hour in, and the back of his neck had a healthy coating of sweat. It dripped from his chin as he gripped his knees, panting in lungfuls of air. Everything burned pleasantly, the cool air a blessing. Around John, the sound of the park filtered through to him between the sounds of his own breathing. He felt revived.

 

Of course, such feelings had a tendency to be interrupted by certain, umbrella-wielding officials. John’s freedom from stress was cut rather short by a dry, familiar voice, breaking his post-run high.

“Fascinating. It’s almost as if you never had a limp at all, isn’t it?”

“Piss off, Mycroft.” John panted, shooting a look towards the bench a few feet behind him. He hadn’t noticed as he’d passed, but of course now that he looked, he saw Sherlock’s older brother. Still dressed in a bloody three-piece even though he was sitting in a park, too.

 

Mycroft smiled smugly at him, grey eyes appearing nearly colourless against a backdrop of London-grim clouds. His hands were folded over the handle of his ever-present umbrella, and when John turned towards him reluctantly one moved to gesture to the empty space beside him. John didn’t move, glaring at the spot as if it had personally offended him.

 

“Come now, surely you have time for a small chat? I would hate to have done legwork for nothing.”

“I’m a bit busy right now, if you haven’t noticed.”

“Ah,” Mycroft chuckled, although he didn’t sound truly amused “You’re one of those who claims they actually ‘enjoy’ strenuous physical activity, aren’t you?”

“This is the part where I’d make a shot at your weight, but Sherlock does that enough for the both of us.” John retorted, somewhat pleased when he saw a flicker of irritation pass the elder Holmes’ face.

 

Deciding he had won this round, John acquiesced (if wholly unhappily) to taking a seat. It felt odd, to see Mycroft in this sort of public space. There was something nearly blasphemous about the action, and in truth John wondered what could be so important that the elder Holmes would make the trek into a public park to find him.

 

“I have been told that my brother recently embarrassed himself, as is the usual to be fair.”

“Honestly, he seems to be plenty embarrassed, although I’m not entirely sure why. All he did was turn into Tanzanite, and it’s not like I haven’t seen her before.”

“Mm, yes. You wouldn’t find anything unusual about a sudden transformation. Sherlock occasionally forgets, you are not exactly ‘up to date’ on the latest Gem gossip.” This was a bit true, John could admit. 

“Gossip?”

“More of a communication line, in truth,” Mycroft murmured “It is truthfully not my place to explain in detail, but there is a reason that Sherlock and I regard each other as siblings. Are you aware of how Gems procreate?”

 

John shook his head slowly. He hadn’t in truth given the idea much thought. He was aware of the basics, that Gems were sentient rocks essentially, but little more.

 

“We are what I like to call a “cuckoo bird” race of beings. Once upon a time, we placed our “eggs”, Gems that are not yet alive, deep in the crust of other planets. Gem drills dug deep into planets like Earth, rich with natural resources, and planted our children. Much like a cuckoo bird, the Gems drain the planet of its resources, becoming stronger for it. In the process, the planet and all of its living inhabitants die. The Gems ‘hatch’ fully formed, return to Gem Homeworld for further instruction, and the cycle continues,” He looked at John out of the corner of his eye “That is, until the resistance and the formation of the Crystal Gems forced us to renegotiate our methods, but you know of that already.”

 

John did, and yet he hadn’t known about the extent of destruction the Gems could have caused should they have won the Gem War. He found himself resisting the urge to wear an expression of fear, the thought of the Earth being hollowed out like a tree trunk infested with carpenter ants terrifying. He swallowed past the lump of disconcertion in the back of his throat, offering the elder Holmes a somewhat confused and wan smile.

“Um, not that it isn’t… _fascinating_ to know more about Gems but um, what does this have to do with Sherlock?”

 

Mycroft shifted, seeming to stare into space for a moment. There was an air about him, as if he were trying to select the right words from the air, shape them the way he wished. He hummed to himself.

 

“Some types of Gems are more… difficult to form than others. Generally speaking, the stronger Gems are harder to create. Relatively common Gems such as Peridots, Rubies and whatnot are as common in our society as having brown eyes is in yours. Yet other Gems, they require some… trial and error.”

 

John didn’t like the sound of that. His brow furrowed.

“Trial and error?” He echoed.

“Failures.” Mycroft stated bluntly, his head tilting to the side. “The reason Sherlock and I are considered brothers, is due to the fact that we were made in the same batch of Gems. We were both intended to form Diamonds, leaders. It’s an extremely difficult Gem to bring into fruition. Yet where I came out fully formed and functional, my sibling… Well, in another time, their Gem would have been destroyed. When under extreme stress, he can’t maintain his form, and there are… other nuances that make him an outlier to most of Gem kind.”

 

He stated the fact plainly, but something in Mycroft’s expression was shadowed. John could feel a twisting sensation in the pit of his stomach. Sherlock was many things, but he was far from a _Failure._

“That’s cruel.” John muttered, to which the elder Holmes merely snorted in derision.

“That, my dear John, was life on Gem Homeworld before Rose Quartz got involved.”

 

The name was uttered like a small prayer, and though John didn’t know much about Gem history, he knew the name. He swallowed, suddenly wondering just how _old_ Mycroft was, or Sherlock for that matter. A Gem on the outside merely looked the way they wished to, but it sometimes was painfully clear just how alien Earth’s newest inhabitants were.

“So… Sherlock’s a defective Gem, then. I still don’t understand why that makes him so embarrassed though. It’s not like I’m going to judge him for it, most people think _I’m_ an abomination just for being a half-Gem.”

 

The elder Holmes’ mouth curled into a small smile. For the first time, something in his cold demeanour thawed.

 

“You really do surpass all of my tests. Really, it’s infuriating to some degree,” Mycroft’s expression turned more serious then, regarding John directly. “Gems are… not kind, when another of their kind is perceived as “different”. Sherlock’s lived much of his life as an outsider, and when afraid he falls to old defence mechanisms. In truth, I’d normally let this resolve on its own, but without your companionship I worry he’d find less… savoury friends.”

 

It didn’t take much thinking to understand to whom Mycroft was implying. John huffed a small laugh, feeling minutely vindicated.

“You don’t like Irene either, then.”

“More like I do not want to have to clean up the mess if my brother happens to fall for one of her cons.” Mycroft answered stiffly. Still, John grinned.

“You don’t trust her.”

“A fool would trust Irene Adler, and my brother’s rapidly turning into one out of sheer stubbornness.” He snapped. Mycroft twisted the handle of his umbrella, inhaling deeply before getting back on topic.

 

“She’s dangerous, John. Dangerous and almost as clever as Sherlock or I. The Gem she’s been blackmailing is not the first victim to her cons and if she’s not careful, she’s going to attract some ugly company. Anyone tied to her will be in the strike zone, and truth be told there is only so much I can do outside of my Diamond court. I humour Sherlock, but the other Diamonds… they’ll crush him if he steps a hair out of line. Irene affiliates with dangerous people, and they’re attracting attention.”  

 

Amusement had left John, replaced by unease. Mycroft wasn’t one to scare easily, and yet it was clear now that he was tired and stressed, though he concealed it well. There were dark circles under Mycroft’s eyes, and beside him an empty paper cup sat. His hands came to twist the ring he habitually wore, a faint nervous tic.

“I’ll look after him.” John found himself saying, although he wasn’t sure there was much he could do if not even Mycroft could hope to stop events if they came to pass. It was evidently what the elder Holmes wanted to hear. He didn’t slump in relief, he nearly slouched.

“Thank you,” He muttered. The gem at his hairline seemed to shimmer with his gratitude. “Know that if my court can do anything for you… you need only to ask.”

 

John took note of that promise.

 

****

In the small and crowded environment of a cafe in Chinatown, The Woman hunched over a porcelain cup of tea. The steam from it curled about her, the hat she wore elaborate and delicate and hiding the better part of her face. She had on a thick jacket, which she used to ward off the chill in the room. The frigid feeling wasn’t due to the weather, but rather due to the figure that sat across from her.

 

Irene’s lips parted, ruby-red lipstick making her terror and confusion all the more apparent to her companion.

“T-two weeks?” She repeated blankly, the cup quivering between her palms. Irene’s captor hummed an affirmative, picking at the dish set between them with chopsticks.

 

Crispy beef, a favourite. Selecting a piece, the Gem popped it into her mouth before replying.

“My boss is getting impatient, Irene. You’ve been seeing Sherlock nearly every day, and yet are no closer to gaining his confidance. Not even his companion trusts you, and he’s essentially a goldfish,” Irene’s throat bobbed in a swallow as the Gem across from her smiled, the grin a razor-sharp baring of teeth. “What do you think he’ll do if you fail, hm? Moriarty’s not the type to so easily forgive incompetence, trust me.” She tapped long fingers across the terrible scar that marred one side of her face, silver with age yet no less frightening for its obvious cruelty.

 

“You need to give me time,” Irene begged weakly, fidgeting in her seat. She had been a fool to get this deep, to immerse herself so totally. Yet there hadn’t been a choice at the time, and now she was paying for her own folly, ensnared in a spider’s web. “I’ll bring him to you willingly, I _can_ do it. I just need to find the right angle, to convince him.”

 

“I’m not sure you can, you already screwed up once and had those other Gems break into your house when you were supposed to gain Sherlock’s attention.”

The Gem murmured quietly, blue eyes glittering. Irene’s gaze dropped to the leg of the table, where the assassin's thigh could just be seen. Strapped to it, was the shape of a gun. Irene had no doubt that the Gem could move fast enough to retrieve it if she tried to run.

 

“I’ll do better.” Irene growled, her teeth gritted against her fear. She wouldn’t cower, even though everything in her body screamed at her that she should.

 

Mary Morstan’s smile returned, a slow and curling thing. She reached out with her chopsticks, spearing another helping of beef.

“See that you don’t.” She stated, happily chewing away. Between the jut of her collarbones, nearly hidden by the collar of the thick bomber jacket she wore, her Gem glowed clear white.

 

****

 

Tanzanite lay in the darkness of the flat on the sofa, having come home to no John and little to do. Her true form was a blue tangle of limbs on the abused furniture piece, highlighted by shafts of afternoon sunlight. She stared up at the ceiling, long fingers tapping absently on her abdomen as she tried once again to store the feeling of _Fusion_ away, somewhere it couldn’t distract her.

So far, there had been little success.

 

Being Aventurine… though it had been a brief experience, she hadn’t been prepared for how _good_ it would feel. She had only ever Fused with someone before out of necessity, the skill something she had made herself proficient at for the sake of ease. Tanzanite had Fused with Molly, with Mycroft (though rarely), with many other Gems on the police task force, yet none of them had before felt like Aventurine had. Even worse, Tanzanite had felt that _John_ had felt the same way. Their Fusion… it was like bathing in sunlight, pure joy and warmth and excitement, all mingled together with a strong bond of affection. It amazed Tanzanite, and also frightened her in turn. How had she not recognised her own feelings before? How did _John_ not read her like a book, now that he had wandered into her head and _felt_ such strong emotions?

 

The detective huffed, rolling onto her side. She curled herself inwards, as if to make her figure as small as possible. It was all so ridiculous, these _feelings._ It wasn’t as if she was a stranger to relationships, having had a few now and again in her younger years. Yet none of them had _felt_ like this before, John had been her friend _first,_ not just another body to indulge in for a brief time to keep boredom at bay. The thought of even  _treating_ John like a novelty sent something greasy and unpleasant down into her stomach to settle like lead. 

John was... He was so  _different_ from any other Gem or Human Sherlock had come to know. He wasn't cruel, or unkind. He could be angry, and bitter and sad and sometimes even depressed, but he never looked at Sherlock as if he were some kind of broken toy left for the trash. He told Sherlock that the defects he had been born with (the info-dumping, the abnormal intelligence, the forgetfulness of the world around him and an inability to keep in one form) and called them  _fantastic_ or  _interesting_ or even, amazingly  _brilliant._ Yet he also wasn't afraid to cal Sherlock out on cruelty, on callousness or rudeness. It was both humbling and bizarre, to have a conscience and a friend at his side when so often they had been given neither. What had she done to thank him? Panicked and given him the cold shoulder. 

 

Even worse, she had shown her hand at Irene’s, her stupid _glitching_ form failing her at the most critical of moments. If John had been a _true_ Gem, he would’ve been disgusted with her. He would have mocked her for being unable to maintain even a basic mask, of being unable to control her abilities or emotions. Yet John, _stupidly_ kind  and _ignorant_ John, hadn’t changed the way he looked at her.

Tanzanite frowned to herself, pressing her face against her knees. She didn’t care if she was acting childish, in that moment with no one to see her. She didn’t know what to do.

She loved John Watson. Sherlock Holmes loved John Watson. Tanzanite loved John and Citrine and whatever form her companion chose to take. John loved Sherlock… but did he love Tanzanite? _Could_ he, when he barely acknowledged his _own_ Gem? Worse, if John  _did_ care, then didn't that make him a target for enemies? The concept was something that made Sherlock at once compelled to shove John approximately five million miles away from them and draw him near at once.

  
They didn't know what to do, and fearful of rejection, they hid themselves as best they could on the couch. Their head was too full of questions, and frustratingly few of them had to do with Moriarty, Irene, or the case at hand.


End file.
